


The Twelfth of Never

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-05
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you accept that Rambaldi really did foresee Sydney's existence, then it stands to reason: No matter what else happened in the world, no matter what else they were doing in their lives, Jack and Irina had to conceive Sydney. This story is really a collection of five other ways Sydney might've come to be. Great thanks are owed to my betas, counteragent and rheanna27 for their invaluable help, and to superswank and delordra, who offered early encouragement and feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Henry and Natasha

_Phnom Penh, Cambodia  
July 1974_

 

Incense smoke laced through the air, opalescent and sweet. Although the CIA and Forces Armees Nationales Khmeres agents were all sitting in an ordinary, Western-style hotel room, several elements of the scene were slightly surreal: the candles burning in the middle of the day, the incense, the antique papers scattered around them all on the floor, the tabletops, any flat surface.

On those papers, in sepia ink, were endless equation and designs in the fluid handwriting that Jack Bristow had come to recognize as that of Milo Rambaldi.

"Fascinating." The FANK agent in charge held a sheet of parchment up to one of the candles; the flickering flame revealed a thinly scraped pattern along the borders. "Lon Nol will be pleased."

"I'm glad to hear it." Jack did not care what Cambodia's ruler – at least, its ruler in name – liked or disliked. Their intelligence had indicated that, since Lon's stroke three years earlier, he had become obsessed with the mystical and occult. The fact that the man was clearly insane had not stopped the US government from backing him; however bad Lon Nol might be, Pol Pot was clearly worse. But it meant that, instead of negotiating for passage through Cambodia with the usual bribes of guns or money, Jack was forced to bargain by offering the scribblings of a Renaissance mystic.

Whatever got the job done.

"We cannot spare many troops to escort you," the FANK agent said, never looking away from the Rambaldi documents. "We have to concentrate our strength in the north."

Williams, Jack's partner for the assignment, shot Jack a knowing glance. With monsoon season already beginning, even the ferocious battles of Cambodia's civil war were slowing down. If CIA agents were getting only a token escort, that was a sign that Lon Nol's forces were even more compromised than their intel had suggested.

All the more reason to hurry, Jack thought. "Whomever you can spare. But we should begin soon. Tonight, if possible."

The FANK agent held another sheet up to the candlelight, so that his face was only a silhouette glimpsed through Rambaldi's letters. "Agreed."

**

They set out at sunset. Jack was grateful for that; Cambodia's summer heat was oppressive, and his olive-drab shirt and trousers already smelled more of sweat than incense smoke. If they didn't run into any trouble en route – which was at least possible, if not probable – they could make the Laotian border by noon the next day.

"You seriously think we'll find anybody?" Williams said as they stretched out in the truck bed, trying in vain to get comfortable enough to sleep against hard metal, pitching and rolling over uneven roads. The night was dark, illuminated only by the thinnest sliver of the new moon in the sky. "Smart money says those guys have been dead for six months."

"I wouldn't bet against them." Jack had trained with one of the agents who had gone into Laos – an intelligent man. He had a small daughter.

"You're an optimist," Williams grumbled, bunching his jacket beneath his head.

"I'm a realist." You didn't get second chances if you didn't give them. Of course, Jack tried not to need them in the first place.

For hours Jack tried to rest in the back of the truck, staring up at stars between the shifting clouds for lack of anything else to study. He did not realize that he had fallen asleep until the truck stopped, waking him. The stars snapped back into focus, and it was quiet, and Jack went so still that he didn't even breathe.

Williams shifted drowsily next to him, his boot heavy on the metal flatbed. Nearby, Jack heard a rustling – tree leaves or high grass. Someone coming close. Several someones.

Too loudly, Williams groaned, "Uhhh – Jack?"

Jack's feet slammed into the back of the truck only a second after the first shots were fired. He shoved himself to the edge and jumped blindly into the dark, not looking back for Williams or any members of the FANK patrol; his only duty, and theirs, was to stay alive.

The mud was cold, and he landed too hard on one arm, twisting the elbow enough to hurt, but not enough to slow him down. Jack slid into a nearby ditch, stopping himself before the brackish water so he could avoid the splash. Any sound could betray him now.

He heard Williams' feet on the earth, the click of his gun's chamber; the fool had decided to fight. The answering shots lit up the night – spotty and too fast, like strobe lights – just long enough for Jack to see Williams' body jerking in an unnatural tempo, surrounded in a mist of spraying blood.

Jack could do nothing for him. He could only use the roar of gunfire as his cover to move.

Though the adrenalin in his blood told him to run, he crawled, moving quickly enough to get some distance but not enough to make noise. He had put a dozen feet between him and the truck when the gunfire stopped; Jack slid behind a nearby tree trunk and braced himself, gulping in a few breaths.

The soldiers shouted back and forth between themselves. Although Jack was no more than minimally conversant in Khmer, he could make out the most important words: They thought they had killed everyone. They would take the ranking FANK officer's head back, as a trophy. And they had killed the missing KGB operative before he got away.

KGB?

They might simply have assumed Williams was Russian – but they sounded too certain. As though they had confirmed KGB activity in the area without a doubt.

Jack breathed out in frustration, wishing he spoke the language better; Williams had been the translator. But Jack understood his situation well enough. He was lost and alone in the countryside of a nation deep in civil war, with one gun in his belt and a few cartridges in his pocket, no map and no solid idea of his location, and in an area obviously controlled by the Khmer Rouge and possibly also under surveillance by the KGB.

You've been in worse trouble than this, he told himself. It wasn't true, but he'd worry about that later.

**

At dawn, he could just make out the Dangrek mountains in the distance – which at least let him guess how far he was from the border with Laos. Too far. Whatever had happened to the agents there would remain a mystery; either they were long dead, or they were in hiding and thus probably better off than Jack was himself. Nothing to do, then, but get back to Phnom Penh.

Jack had Cambodian currency, but he did not dare attempt to bargain for transportation. The Khmer Rouge were violently anti-Western, and even those who did not share their beliefs feared their troops and might turn in any foreigner. He had to assume that, if he were spotted anywhere outside one of the large cities still controlled by Lon Nol's troops, he would be shot on sight – if he were lucky. This meant he would probably have to walk most of the way back.

In Jack's debriefing, they had helpfully explained that Cambodia was roughly the size of Oklahoma.

He ripped off the sleeves of his shirt – even in the early morning, it was already wretchedly hot – and knotted one of them around his forehead. Should have gotten his hair cut before he came; it was too long now, and his curls would advertise to anyone, even at a considerable distance, that he wasn't Cambodian. The rag would help, but it would be better if he could steal a hat or some more suitable clothes.

So he kept close to the road, trusting that soon it would lead him to a small village or town where he could hide near the outskirts and wait for dark.

But around noon, instead of finding a collection of small countryside huts, Jack saw a house shimmering on the horizon, like a mirage. It was white, flat-roofed, with columns on the porch and shutters on the windows – something built by French colonists fifty years ago.

Could any French citizens still be living in this area? Surely the Khmer Rouge would have scared them off or killed them, by now.

But if the house hadn't been looted, there might be clothing or equipment Jack could use. Maybe even a telephone line, if his luck had really changed. He moved carefully toward the house, staying in the high grass, watching for any sign of life. As he got closer, he saw that there were fresh tire tracks in the muddy path leading to the house. Jack hunched down, so that he was almost crawling again.

As he reached the very edge of the house's lawn – the place where the high grass had been cut back, bordered all around by a ditch so waterlogged that it looked like a moat – Jack saw the first dead body.

The man lay on his back, in the shadows of the high porch. His face was dark with blood, and greedy flies buzzed around his head. Jack breathed in deeply; the smell of death wasn't in the air. So this hadn't happened long ago – within a day, at most, in this heat.

A gust of wind ruffled the man's hair, revealing that the few strands not drenched with blood were blond. Instantly, Jack realized that the house had long ago been abandoned by the French; this had been the KGB headquarters, raided last night just before the attack on the truck.

Jack felt reassured – illogically so, because the FANK troops would have been sure to remove everything remotely useful from this house. But he could make a thorough search, perhaps determine what the KGB had been doing in this area so that he could report on it when he got back. It felt good to have something concrete to do.

He slipped into the shadows of the porch, then went inside. Two more men lay dead on the floor, their hands bent into crooks that revealed they'd died holding guns. "Damn," Jack muttered, wishing even one stray weapon remained behind. He could use it now –

The creaking of the floorboard was so quiet that it might have been nothing. But Jack spun around at the sound, gun at the ready, to face his attacker.

She was covered in mud – completely covered, head to toe, with only a hand-swipe across her eyes and mouth. The gun in her hands was equally filthy, so much so that Jack wasn't even certain it would fire. He didn't intend to take the chance. They held the weapons on each other for a few long moments, not wavering, not moving.

Then she gasped, breath shaky, and whispered, "Je vous en prie, m'sieu, dites-moi que vous êtes venu en tant qu'ami - les bêtes, vous pouvez voir ce qu'elles ont fait à ma famille –"

Nice try, Jack thought. "I know you're KGB. Do you speak English?"

"Yes." The French-girl-in-distress act was over as soon as it had begun. Her eyes met his, fear replaced by steel. "And you're CIA."

"You're welcome to work under that assumption."

Though it was difficult to tell with the muck that covered her, he thought she smiled. He doubted any humor lay behind it. "So, have you captured me, or have I captured you?"

"Good question." Jack understood that his duty was to restrain and interrogate her, preferably by bringing her to a CIA installation. He also understood that this duty had absolutely no bearing on the realities of his situation.

Mud was slowly flowing down her legs, beginning to puddle at her feet. Wet leaves were wrapped around her ankles. Jack realized that she must have buried herself in the ditch during the attack, then again when she saw him approach. Smart: the house would have been searched much more thoroughly than the grounds. It was an automatic assessment, but it helped make his mind up.

He said, "I'd take you prisoner if I could. I can't. I think the same holds true for you."

"Give me a chance." She braced herself, clearly readying herself to fire.

"Think about this. We have to get out of here. Either of us will be shot on sight. It makes sense to pool our resources."

"What resources?"

"You see my point. We need all the help we can get."

She lifted her chin, considering him. Jack had the distinct sense that this might yet turn out to be a stand-off, boiling down simply to who could fire fastest. He made up his mind to win, if it came to that.

But then she relaxed slightly and nodded. "All right. We work together." Her English was excellent; Jack could detect only the slightest trace of an accent. "We get out of here by any means possible. If we come into contact with Soviet agents first, you're my prisoner. If we find Americans first, I'm yours."

"Sounds fair." Jack had no intention of going willingly into Soviet custody, and she didn't look like the type to surrender either. But they were both so far from any help that the agreement might as well stand for now. "We should move. They could come back here at any time."

"I have to wash." She peeled one of her shirttails away from her muddy body, by way of demonstration. "Give me your gun."

Jack could have laughed. "No thanks."

"If you think I'm going to bathe while you're holding a gun on me –"

"I don't know where you might have weapons or ammunition hidden in this place. You could come out of the bathroom with a rifle, for all I know." They glared at one another for a moment, and he breathed out. "We have to work under the assumption that we won't kill each other at the first opportunity. Take your shower. I'll trust you not to come out armed."

She hesitated, then nodded. "I'll trust you not to come inside."

"Got it."

He remained downstairs after she ascended, the better to get out if she did re-arm herself, but he heard only running water, the normal sounds of someone getting dressed. "Do you have any useful supplies?" he called up to her after a while. His own cursory check of the first floor had revealed nothing.

"Very little. Some fatigues, some of the men's shoes."

Shoes – the one useful thing Jack already had. "Not even any native Cambodian clothing?"

"We're each five inches taller than the average Cambodian. In case you hadn't noticed."

"A hat would make a good start."

"With hair like yours? I imagine so." She came into view at the top of the stairs, and Jack looked up into her clean-scrubbed face for the first time.

His first thought didn't exactly translate into words. His second thought was that it didn't matter if she looked like Julie Christie or Bella Abzug, because they had more important things to deal with. His third and final thought on the subject was that he probably shouldn't gape at her like an awestruck boy.

Jack slipped his weapon into his belt just as she did hers, moving in unison. The gun appeared to have been cleaned as thoroughly as her body, and her olive-drab clothing almost matched his own.

"Do you know the area?" he asked.

"A little. I haven't been here long." Truth or lie? No way to know. "We're only about a day's hike from the Mekong. We could follow that down."

"To Vietnam?" In the aftermath of the war, it was the main Communist stronghold in this part of the world. "No thanks."

"Got a better idea?" She raised one eyebrow.

He did not. "We can start with the Mekong. Once we get further south, we come up with a more solid plan."

As they went down the stairs, she said, too casually, "So, what's your name?"

Don't let yourself be manipulated. "Henry. And yours?"

"Natasha."

Something in her voice told him that it was a lie – as obvious a lie as his own. They understood each other. At the doorway, they shared an odd, tight smile. "A pleasure, Natasha," he said. "Now let's move."

**

Jack had hoped that it might not rain for another day or two, giving him and Natasha – no other way to think of her – a chance to cover some distance. But by mid-afternoon, the clouds were gathering; when it first started to rain, Natasha began heading toward heavier forest cover. "It's not that bad yet," he called. They were the first words he'd spoken since they'd left the house.

"Spent much time in Cambodia during monsoon season, Henry?" Her smile was fast and sharp, like the gleam on a knife's blade. "In another few minutes, it will feel like someone's pounding you with his fists. I suggest we take cover."

The forest floor was so thick with mud that they ended up taking refuge on the lower branches of a tree, and between them they held a broad, yellow-green banana leaf above their heads as a kind of umbrella. That, plus the heavy branch just overhead, kept their faces slightly less wet than the rest of their bodies. Strands of Natasha's dark hair framed her face, rain trickling down through them like water through a brook. Rain poured, and poured, and poured – an hour, more, on and on, endlessly hard.

More from boredom than anything else, Jack finally said, "So, what's a nice girl like you doing in the KGB?"

"Fleeing clichéd pickup lines. It hasn't done me much good. What about you? What brings you to the CIA?"

"I'm keeping the world safe for democracy." At her raised eyebrow, Jack continued, straight-faced, "Specifically, the part of the world beneath this banana leaf."

"Ah, the air of freedom is sweet."

It occurred to him that silence, though dull, was probably his better option.

By the time the rain had died down enough for them to start walking again, little light remained in the sky. Natasha spoke first. "I don't know this area well enough to travel at night. I think we can get to the riverbank within an hour; after that, the first shelter we find, we should take."

"You think we'll run into a village?" Jack unknotted the damp rag from around his head. "Can we hide there without being spotted?"

"Many of the neighboring villages are deserted."

"Running from the Khmer Rouge?"

"From them, from FANK – just running. This entire country has gone mad." It was the main point on which they had agreed so far.

They did not speak again until the last twilight, just as they were coming upon the river. Natasha glanced over her shoulder and said, "Your hair is even worse wet."

"I think we have bigger problems than my hair," Jack said. "But if we're ever in a position to worry about that again, you can do the honors."

Then he heard the motor.

He grabbed Natasha's arm; she started to pull away, then froze as she heard it too. Loud and choppy – a boat on the river.

They ducked down together, dark-green reeds closing over their heads. His eyes met hers in the twilight, through rain-beaded grass. This could be danger or opportunity; they had to choose wisely. At the same moment, they each turned toward the water.

The motor stilled. Jack heard a voice – a child's voice. Then an older man answered, chuckling. The Khmer was too thickly accented for Jack to understand at all, but he didn't need language to hear the child's curiosity or the adult's age and affection. This was probably a grandfather taking his grandson out fishing.

They must have been hungry, Jack thought. To travel so far into deserted territory, looking for something to eat.

Near him, Natasha shifted. He realized she had taken out her gun, and in dismay thought that she was about to kill the Cambodians and claim their boat and supplies. Tactically, that was the smarter move, but Jack had no intention of letting her make it.

Her eyes flicked over to him, sharp and merciless. Shock hit him as hard as relief. No, she wasn't going to hurt them. She'd taken out her gun to stop him from doing so.

They studied each other in silence, realizing the other's motives. Her face seemed different to Jack, as though he'd gotten her features wrong, somehow.

She relaxed and lowered the gun. For ten minutes more, they listened to the child's laughter, and did not move until the boat had puttered far away.

**

As Natasha had predicted, the first village they came to was deserted. They chose a small hut with only one window but a heavy door with a bar, which Jack slid shut behind them. Exhausted, he slumped against the door as he switched on his small flashlight.

"You could have mentioned you had that earlier," Natasha said, squinting in the beam. "Maybe before I tripped over the third log."

"We could be out here for a month, or more. Best to save it." He swept the beam through the room until he found a small lantern that had been left behind; it sat next to what appeared to be a pallet on the floor. Fortunately, he was able to light it quickly and spare the flashlight's battery. As flickering illumination filled the hut, Jack and Natasha could get their bearings. The people who had fled had taken most of their things with them – that, or they'd owned precious little to start with. Jack suspected the house's residents had been tailors, or at any rate in the process of sewing things for themselves; a few skeins of thread lay in bundles on the floor. He also found a small pamphlet, indecipherable to his eyes. "Do you read or speak Khmer?"

"I can read signs, ask for directions. That's all." Natasha looked grim as she took a blanket from the pallet and hung it over the window, concealing their presence from any potential observers. "They killed my translator."

"They killed mine too."

"Well, Henry, we have one thing in common. We're both lucky." The joke surprised Jack, and his answering smile seemed to surprise her. As the lantern's flame played across her face, he studied the shape of her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes. Perhaps annoyed by his scrutiny, she turned her head from him. "At least we can take care of one of our problems."

Jack unlaced his boot, pulled it off, grimaced as water trickled from it. "What's that?"

By way of answer, Natasha lifted something from the floor – a pair of scissors. "I used to cut my sisters' hair. You'll be in good hands."

He wondered if she really had sisters. No telling.

On one level, he was aware that they had both focused on his hair – a giveaway, but only one of too many to list – so as to avoid thinking about the countless other difficulties they faced. On another, he thought a little avoidance was probably a good idea right around now.

After Jack took his place on the lone chair, Natasha came up behind him and ran one hand through his hair, appraising its texture. It felt unnatural, turning his back on a KGB agent, even letting her touch him – Jack had spent the last few years becoming an expert at distrust – but he remembered the old man and his grandson, safe in their fishing boat, and forced himself to relax. The sensation of her fingertips against his scalp somehow made the humid night air even warmer, but he pushed those thoughts out of mind and said, "This is rather – optimistic of you."

"Rather optimistic of you, really. Letting me near you with a sharp edge in my hand."

"I meant what I said." He spoke over the first snipping sounds of the scissors; she was working her way from the back. "We have bigger problems to worry about than each other."

"I'll decide that after I know you better. You might want to withhold judgment too." She tugged at some curls behind his ear. "So why is this optimistic of me? I'm curious."

"You think this marginally improves our chances of getting out of Cambodia alive. That means you think we actually have a chance."

Her hand rested for a moment at the base of his neck, so hot it almost burned. "Don't patronize me."

"I wasn't –"

"I know the odds." Natasha's tug on his hair was too hard, and his scalp prickled with pain. "If there's an optimist here, it's you."

"I'm a realist," Jack said, wondering how he'd ended up explaining this twice in 24 hours. "There's just -- no point in giving up."

"We're both realists." The scissors moved toward the front of his head, and he had to blink away the falling curls. "That makes two things we have in common."

She was so close to him now – belly pressed against his back – that he could feel the in-and-out of her breath, hear the soft rumble in her stomach. "I'll try and catch some fish in the morning. Find some fruit. Something."

"I'll help." Natasha's hands raked through his remaining hair, shaking loose the last loose hairs. "You have large ears."

"Thanks for the news flash." Jack touched his head; she'd shorn him almost to the scalp, though at least it felt even. His thumb brushed against hers, just for a second. He stood up quickly, then stripped off his damp T-shirt, grateful to get it off his body. More of his hair drifted downward in the lantern's uneven light. "We should sleep," he said, eyeing the pallet in the corner of the room. "Where are you planning to bunk down?"

"Right there."

Figured. "So where does that leave me for the night?"

"Same place."

He glanced at her, just in time to see her slowly peel away her shirt, then drape it over the chair. She was nude from the waist up, and Jack couldn't turn away.

"We'll probably die tomorrow," she said, voice hard. The truth of it hit him as powerfully as the sight of her naked body. "And I never like to think that I've done anything for the last time."

Jack closed his hand around her arm, hard, as if to hold her in place. They stared at each other, breathing too fast, trapped in a moment that was neither conflict nor seduction; this was both too intimate and too painful for that. All that bound them together in this place was their shared certainty that nothing else would come after this, that nothing further away than this night would ever matter.

It was enough; it had to be.

With one hand still clenched around her elbow, her pulse quick against his thumb, Jack slowly pressed his other hand flat against her chest, in the expanse between her throat and her breasts. He wanted to feel the rise and fall of her breath, the heat of her skin.

She watched him, eyes wide, as he began exploring her body with his hands – not caressing her for pleasure, but just tracing her shape. Her breasts filled his palms. The small of her back had a small, ridged scar that felt cool against his fingertip. Her trousers' zipper stuck as he tugged it down, and they fumbled together to get her out of them – still standing in the middle of the hut, still refusing to meet each other's gaze. Jack stepped even closer to her so that he could smell her, sweat or blood or sex, anything that was her. Natasha was the last person Jack would ever know, the most real thing left in the world.

Her breasts brushed his chest, and at the feel of skin on skin, she gasped. The trance broke, and he kissed her, and everything that had been so slow was now fast, tumultuous and blinding. Natasha's mouth opened beneath him as they stumbled to the pallet together, and Jack pulled her down with him as they tumbled onto it. Her skin tasted of salt and rain.

The last time. This was probably the last time he would touch a woman, the last time he would ever make love. All his well-buried fear rose up, transmuted, became electric.

Natasha stripped him as eagerly as he had her, and soon Jack was well-acquainted with the strength of her hands, the heat of her mouth. They were too frantic to take their time, and within only a few minutes she was straddling him on the bed. Their hands brushed against each other as they angled his cock, and then Jack bit down on his lower lip as she lowered herself onto him, taking him deep. He could taste his own blood.

This is the last time, he thought, even as heat enclosed him, pressed him, concentrated every idea and sensation within her body. Never again. Never again.

Her hands pinned his to the bed, and at last their eyes met. As Jack moved beneath her, he kept his gaze locked with Natasha's, letting her see – his excitement, his fear, everything. He felt bizarrely exposed, almost as if they were being spied upon, though she was the only one to see him. Yet none of his other lovers had ever seen him like this. It was as is none of them had ever seen him at all.

Their eye contact was a kind of challenge. She accepted, and though Jack could not be sure through the haze of sex, he thought she liked it. He knew only that she was as frightened as he was.

Then she frowned, and shut her eyes as if in pain – but the shudder that went through her body gave the lie to her distress. Natasha's half-muffled cry told Jack she was climaxing, and he clenched his fingers more tightly around hers.

She threw her head back, panting for air, and just the sight of her like that -- Jack came, thrusting up into her hard.

For a few moments, they remained locked together, shaking from exhaustion and release. Jack wanted to kiss her again – and yet it felt as though he would be presumptuous. It was incredibly strange to feel like that while he was still inside her.

Natasha rolled to one side, and Jack studied her naked body in the flickering light. Their skin shone with sweat; the silhouette of her breasts stirred him, spent though he was. But for now it was enough to look.

Exhaustion and post-coital blurriness surrounded him, bore him down. Don't go to sleep, he thought – that would be for the last time too – but as soon as he thought it, the dark held him at last.

**

The next morning was less awkward than it might have been, all things considered. Natasha was neither coy nor ashamed, merely businesslike as she got dressed again. They made a thorough search of the village as the sun rose, hunting for the few items that might be worth hauling with them.

Jack's prize find was a tent, Khmer-army issue, shelter and camouflage at once; the troops that scared these people off probably left it behind, he thought. But Natasha outdid him by locating a bag of rice and a small pot. She boiled some for their breakfast, and they wolfed down a few mouthfuls, eating with their hands. Jack took only a moment to blow on singed fingertips between bites. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he started eating.

"This is just a tributary," Natasha said as she licked her fingers. "We should make the Mekong in the early afternoon. After that, we'll at least be headed in the right direction."

"First good news we've had in a while." Probably it would be the last, but there was no point in dwelling on that. "I'll carry the tent."

This small chivalry earned him a hard look from Natasha. "Just so we're perfectly clear – last night doesn't mean anything. And it shouldn't change anything."

He rose to his feet, brushed the stickiness from his hands. "What did you think I was going to do today?" Jack asked without looking at her. "Invite you to the prom?"

No telling if a Soviet agent even knew what the prom was, but she seemed to get the gist. "You don't have to be rude, Henry."

"And you don't have to be cold." Jack wiped his brow – the day was already sweltering, barely an hour past sunrise – and forced down his irritation. Of all his problems, the gorgeous woman who'd gone to bed with him the night before was definitely the least. "You don't have to worry that I misinterpreted what happened. Last night was – what it was, nothing more. From now on, it's all business, no sex."

"Who said anything about no sex?"

He glanced back at her; there were no words for the wickedness of her smile. They understood each other. Jack said, "I'm still carrying the tent, aren't I?"

"Oh, yes."

From that day on, Jack knew how their nights would be – and he was right. For the next two weeks of hiking, every night they were able to make camp, they would wordlessly set up the tent, climb inside and make love – no complications, no thought, just two people locked together in the heat, moving too hard and fast to be afraid. Jack hadn't known he could be tired and desperate and half-starved and still have the energy to fuck, at least not the way he and Natasha did. But they chased the demons away like that, virtually every night, and it worked perfectly.

What he had not counted on were their days.

They walked in near-silence the first few days, encountering no signs of human life and discussing nothing. But soon they began to talk. Sometimes Jack thought they started having conversations because they were secretly sizing each other up as rival agents; other times, he thought it was more a case of alleviating the inevitable boredom.

Beneath all of that, Jack knew the truth: They talked to each other because there was no reason not to. He and Natasha knew they were going to die; that meant they knew they had nothing left to hide.

While crossing a rice paddy:

"Where are you from? Can you tell me?"

"I grew up in Moscow; that doesn't give too much away." Natasha lifted the long fall of hair from the back of her neck; it was stringy with sweat.

"Maybe I should give you a haircut this time." Jack's boots kept sinking into the mud, making every step a struggle. The tent was heavy and hot as fire across his back.

She laughed; he liked her laugh. "As revenge?"

"I meant it as a favor." He smirked as he pulled ahead, one more giant step through the muck. "But now that you mention it –"

"It's fine. I'll braid it up tonight." Natasha got a few steps ahead of him, and Jack noticed how pink her arms were; to judge by the prickling across his forehead, they'd be equally sunburned by nightfall. He hoped they'd still be able to touch. "What about you, Henry? Can you tell me where you're from?"

Giving her the name of the small town in South Dakota where he'd grown up would be as good as pinning on a name tag for the KGB in debrief – not that they would make it to any debrief, but it was the principle of the thing. "I'll have to remain mysterious."

"I always liked a challenge." She glanced back over her shoulder at him, and the fire in her eyes made him wish for sundown.

While bathing together in the river first thing in the morning:

"You have a lot of scars for someone so young." Natasha's hand was wet and cool against his back.

Jack felt a fish slip past his calf and hoped very much that it wasn't one of the ones inclined to bite. "You never noticed this before?"

"Of course I did. But I never wanted to stop and talk about it."

He rubbed his hands over his body, trying to get rid of the worst of the grime. Although they only had the same sweaty clothes to change into, and no soap at all, they still tried to bathe every day or two.

Her finger traced a long line a few inches from his spine; Jack knew the mark she'd found. "I went under some barbed wire a couple years back – well, nearly went under it. As you can see."

"Must have hurt."

"I didn't even notice until the next day. I was in a hurry."

Natasha's hand lingered on his back just a moment longer. "I know what you mean."

He almost asked her about it, was almost willing to share some of the things he'd done and the places he'd been. But common sense reasserted itself that morning. All the same, he'd told her half of it by nightfall.

While waiting out a monsoon:

"This is better than a banana leaf," Natasha said, perhaps by way of praise. Jack had found two aged trees that had leaned together and intertwined, over time; they had taken refuge beneath the place where the trunks merged. The hateful tent pack had even been hung on an outcropping of wood, safe from getting wet and no longer weighing Jack down.

"How much ground do you think we covered today? Bet we didn't make five miles." It was the third storm since sunrise, when they'd awakened to the thumping of rain on the tent and mud seeping in at their feet. Darkness would fall within the hour, and Jack already suspected this would be a night when they couldn't make camp, or make love; they'd just have to struggle on through the mire.

"Probably not." She wrung out the damp hem of her T-shirt. "Looks like we'll be in Cambodia for a while yet, Henry."

He started to laugh; he couldn't help it. The idea that they were going to get themselves killed, any day now – it had gone past terror into the realm of fact, no more, and any denial of it was absurdity worthy of Ogden Nash. Jack leaned against one of the trees and laughed it out, aware that the extremity of his reaction was half hysteria. Natasha watched him, saying nothing. Her dark eyes were wide, but she did not turn away.

Finally, he gasped, "I'm sorry."

"As long as only one of us loses our cool at a time, we'll be okay." She understood him, and he knew that should bother him, but it didn't.

Jack brushed his fingers across her cheek, cradling her face in his hands. "We won't be here for very long," he whispered. The rain fell so hard on either side of them that they seemed to be standing between curtains of silver. "Might as well make the most of it."

The flimsiness of his excuse could not have deceived her. And yet her hands rested upon his chest, and she leaned closer. "Why not?"

Jack kissed her, slow and deep. It was the first time they had ever kissed when they weren't making love. In every way, this was a mistake – and yet it wasn't. They were past the boundary where any mistake could matter.

When the rain ended, Natasha was all business for the rest of the night and the entire next day. Even when they at last lay naked together in the tent again, more than a day later, she still kept him at a distance – sort of; Natasha got him off, got herself off, and rolled away from him to face the other side of the tent, all within about ten minutes.

Probably smart, Jack thought. But it was hard to sleep.

**

After two weeks, they began to run into people.

Fortunately, they had spotted the first signs the day before: discarded bones from someone's meal, perhaps roast duck, and fields that looked as though they had been recently tended. For the first time in weeks, Jack heard a motor – a truck, perhaps, far away but chilling all the same. They kept to wooded areas, despite the fact that this slowed them down even more. One near-miss – four men walking along a pathway, at a distance too great to be sure whether the long shadows in their hands were hoes or guns – kept them both crouching in the mud for more than an hour.

"I'd started to believe we were the last two people in the world," Natasha confessed when they finally got to their feet again.

"What happened to being a realist?"

"We're both covered in mud up to our armpits," she replied. "That's realistic enough for now, don't you think?"

The punishing sunlight beat down on them, so much so that the pools of rainwater seemed to be steaming. Jack looked out over the wide fields in the distance, swaying grasses in a thousand shades of pale green, and wished they could risk cutting across it. The increased human activity meant that populated towns were nearby; if the town was large enough, there was every chance Lon Nol's troops still controlled it. Then he could get to safety –

\-- and Natasha would be taken for interrogation, and then prison –

He pushed that aside. The thought of survival still seemed like an abstract goal more than a real chance. Right now, today, nothing was more important than staying alive. "We'll have to move slower. We can't afford to take any chances."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Henry." But the irritation in her voice was for the situation, not him. "At least soon we'll be in a better position to steal."

Natasha's prediction seemed to be fulfilled when, early one morning, they reached the outskirts of a village. It was still just past dawn, and she argued that they should take what they could, while they could. "That woman left clothes hanging on the line." Natasha gestured toward the shirts and pants, all of them invitingly clean, fluttering in the breeze. "She might as well have asked us to have them."

"That's strange," Jack said, remembering his mother's washdays. "Leaving them out like that during the rainy season. Just the dew, overnight –"

"So she forgot about them. That's our gain." Then Natasha considered it, crouching with him at the base of a tree. "It is odd."

No early risers in this village, either. Jack would have expected to hear something – a baby's cry, or the sounds of a breakfast fire being made. "Let's wait."

She didn't argue, and he knew that she sensed it too: Something was very wrong.

The sun rose higher and higher, blazing down into midmorning, and still nobody appeared. Long after they knew the village was deserted, Jack and Natasha remained motionless – now anxious to see people, the same people they'd hoped not to see before.

When the sunlight dimmed with cloud cover – the first sign of another approaching rainstorm – the wind changed direction. And then Jack could smell nothing but the ghastly sweet scent of death.

"Chort vosmi." It was the first time Natasha had spoken in Russian. She tugged her T-shirt up over her nose, squinting from the stink. "What happened here?"

"Whatever it was, it ended days ago." Jack knotted a cloth around the lower half of his face. "Let's investigate."

The entire village was empty. People seemed to have left in the middle of what they were doing – one table held dishes full of half-spoiled meals, around which flies swirled, and a basin of water sat on the floor next to what looked like baby clothes laid out for dressing after a bath. Bamboo chimes rang from a porch, musical but hollow. Although they would have covered more ground separately, Jack and Natasha stuck together.

"Look," she said, pointing toward one door. Jack saw fine lines traced in the wood – the tracks of fingernails. As if someone had held on, then been dragged away. The village's dirt pathways were all muddy now, but he wondered if he would have seen similar tracks there a few days before.

They kept moving, walking through the eerie silence. Then the wind picked up, blowing the scent of death upon them again, and all at once Jack knew just where to look. He ran toward it – he couldn't not investigate – and Natasha followed, though he didn't know if she shared his perverse determination or whether she simply didn't want to be alone.

And then they found the pit.

Bodies. Dozens – no, more than a hundred – all of them piled like cordwood. Men, women, children, babies. Some of them had been shot; others had been hacked to pieces with – who the hell knew –

None of them had their heads.

Natasha vomited into the grass, bending double, then staggered to the nearest tree. Jack could not go to her aid; he was dangerously close to joining her.

Khmer Rouge. Jack knew that Lon Nol's troops were violent, but a massacre like this could only be Khmer Rouge. He wondered if they would have seen blood in the village streets if it hadn't all been washed away by the monsoon. Even as he thought it, he saw the hand-painted sign stabbed into the damp earth next to the mass grave. He could not read the symbols. "Do you –" His voice was tight, and he had to swallow his nausea and fear before he could speak again. "Can you read that?"

She nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "KGB. They decided these people were KGB."

Babies? That was insanity, worse than insanity. Jack shuddered. "Let's take what we need and get the hell out of here."

They stole clothes, rice, tools and dry blankets. Although the village would obviously remain undisturbed for days to come, and the impending rainstorm promised to be difficult, neither of them spoke of staying even an hour longer than necessary.

After hiking through the rain, they managed to put a few miles between them and the murdered village and to find some high ground to camp on for the night. Jack felt dead to desire, and apparently Natasha did as well; they held each other in the dark, too numbed to know better.

"Maybe we traded with them once," she whispered. "For food or transport. I don't remember. It could have been something as simple as that."

"It's not your fault. The Khmer Rouge see enemies everywhere. They invent them where they don't exist."

Her head was heavy on his shoulder; Jack felt reassured by the weight. She murmured, "Our countries think they can decide what happens here, like flipping a switch." Her voice was almost lost in the sounds of the nighttime jungle: insect clickings and the wind rustling waxy broad leaves. To him it seemed as though the world itself was breathing slowly, sleeping all around them. "It makes you wonder if our leaders have ever left their houses. If they even understand how – twisted and mad the world can be. Or maybe they believe in destiny."

Jack remembered candlelight, and incense smoke, and the fluid handwriting of Milo Rambaldi. "I came here to trade in prophecies."

"Don't joke, Henry. Not about this."

"I wish I were joking." He stroked her soft hair, trying to give comfort and finding it as well. "I gave Lon Nol the words of a man who thought he could see the future."

"We work for fools. "

"Yeah. We do."

Their work was madness. This country was madness. At the moment, the only thing that seemed sane or real was the woman lying next to him. Jack wondered how much more trouble he could possibly be in – then realized he'd probably find out.

**

A heavy silence marked their travels together for the next few days, until one afternoon when they stopped to fish.

Natasha had speared three fish and he had yet to get one. She balanced right at the water's edge, makeshift weapon in her hands, every muscle taut. Even as they spoke, her attention was wholly focused on the water. Jack decided maybe he should try the same. Apologizing for his performance, he said, "Give me a rod and reel, and I could acquit myself better."

"Give me a market, and to hell with fishing," she retorted, making her point.

Jack moved a few steps down the riverbank, hoping to find a more advantageous spot. "At least I can build the fire for us to cook these. You have to admit, I'm good with – fires –"

As he spoke, he looked up from the water, and a flash of orange across the way caught his attention. Jack stared, unable to speak or even breathe.

"Natasha," he finally said. "Look."

"Yes, you're very good with fires –"

She spoke too loudly, and Jack went to her, taking her hand. When Natasha pulled back, he simply pointed across the river at the tiger.

The giant cat blinked golden eyes at them, tail twitching. The muscles in its powerful body rippled beneath dark stripes as it took three strides forward, then licked its chops, as though it found them inviting. For the first time in years, Jack felt the awestruck delight of seeing something wonderful, something dangerous, something new. For the past few days, he had thought he would never feel anything like wonder ever again; it was good to know that the capacity still lurked inside.

"It's amazing," Natasha whispered.

Words were inadequate to describe it. Jack said only, "Yeah, it is."

"It won't swim across, will it?" There was real fear in her voice – but not for the reason anyone else would have been afraid. "I don't want to have to shoot it."

"I don't either." The tiger was the most alive thing Jack thought he had ever seen.  
"But it doesn't look like it's going to."

The tiger either disliked the water, like most cats, or had eaten recently enough that two lost spies weren't worth its time. It took one step forward so that its enormous paw pressed down white and gold across the mud, twitched its whiskers, then turned and slipped away into the tall grass. Jack watched it go until the last sliver of orange had disappeared.

That night, when Natasha turned to him, Jack knew it was all right to touch her again. They made love slowly, even tenderly, drawing out a kind of softness that he would not have imagined she possessed – and that he thought he had lost long ago. Before, they had almost torn their satisfaction from each other, claiming it like the spoils of war; only now did Jack realize how well he knew her body, her responses, even the catch in her throat when she came.

Afterward, when she lay in his arms, Jack found himself curiously calm. The distance between them had disappeared, and even if their connection was dangerous, he did not regret it. When you found yourself in dangerous territory, sometimes all you could do was keep going and take your chances.

Perhaps her thoughts ran along the same lines, because she whispered, "I'm glad you're here, Henry."

He paused for three breaths. "My name is Jack."

She propped up on one elbow; he could barely make out her features in the dark. Jack braced himself for disbelief or mockery. Instead, she said, "I'm Irina."

"Irina." The name filled his mouth for the one moment before she kissed him.

**

In the morning, he went out to find breakfast for Irina, kissing her shoulder while she dozed beneath their blanket.

Irina, he thought, trying out the name again in his mind. Already, "Natasha" was the name of the stranger who had held a gun on him. The woman he had come to know for the past few weeks, the one he had made love to last night – that was Irina.

Smiling, Jack collected a few bananas from a nearby tree. As he headed back to their campsite, he noticed that the moon still hung at the very edge of the early-morning sky – the new moon, just a sliver. He paused, looking around for anything that seemed exceptional, beautiful or useful –

Beautiful appeared first, as he found a star-shaped flower with petals that were snowy white at the center, darkening to brilliant pink on the edges. Jack plucked it and returned to the tent, where Irina was sitting, blinking sleepily, in the very front.

"Good morning," Jack said, tucking the flower behind one of her ears, then kissing her quickly.

"Would you believe I never had a banana before I came to Cambodia? After this, I don't care if I never have another," Irina said, nonetheless peeling her breakfast. Then she touched the flower behind her ear, stroking the petals so carefully that it seemed as though they were an extension of herself, something she could feel. "To what do I owe the gift?"

"Ah. Right." Already the small gesture embarrassed him; he had hoped, rather stupidly, that it would pass without comment. "Well. We met a month ago today." Her wide eyes made Jack feel that he'd gotten more than a bit ahead of himself. "I'm sorry. I'm being – sentimental, and that's not –"

"It can't have been a month." Irina sat bolt upright, her face pale.

"You haven't kept track of the days?"

"No. I thought it would only discourage me. You lost count somewhere."

"The new moon was in the sky when my truck was ambushed, and it was in the sky last night. That makes 28 days, which makes –" The realization hit him, choking off words or thought.

They had spent the previous month utterly without privacy, doing everything in front of each other without any embarrassment. But only now had Jack realized that Irina had never had a period.

Staring at each other, they were silent for more than a minute. Then Irina began to eat, very calmly. "We're being stupid," she said through a mouthful of banana. "We don't have enough food, we don't get enough sleep and we're both pushing our endurance to the limit. The female body isn't like clockwork, you know. Factors like this make a difference."

"Right," Jack said, relief washing over him with the warmth of the morning's first sunshine. "Of course."

He more or less believed her – Jack had a wholly illogical faith in women's intuition about such things – and managed to put the concern mostly from his mind for another two days. They made camp that night beneath a flowering tree, the air sweet with perfume, and Jack turned to her eagerly. She welcomed him, kissing him slow and deep, guiding his mouth from hers to her throat, then her breasts –

And then she started to cry.

"Irina?" Puzzled, Jack tried to calm her, but she turned from him, hugging herself. "What's wrong?"

"It hurts when you do that."

"I'm sorry –"

"You don't understand." Her tears were already gone, but the fierceness in her voice was more alarming. "You're not doing anything wrong. It's just – that kind of sensitivity – it's an early sign of pregnancy."

Jack couldn't come up with anything to say. He rolled onto his back, breathing hard, grappling with his own fear. Although they had spent the past month in unceasing peril, this constituted something so new and terrifying that Jack had no way to easily deal with it.

Nothing else had mattered, not for an entire month. Jack had known his own life to be forfeit, and so everything that had happened – from life-threatening danger to this affair with Irina – had been without any real consequence, until now.

Now everything was different. Now, the possibility that they might live, however slim, loomed large in his mind. In giving up his own life, Jack had created another, and the horrible folly of that sickened him.

A child. A child he could never hope to care for, could never even expect to see --

As upset as he was, Jack recognized that Irina had to be even more afraid. But how could he possibly comfort her? No matter what, their journey together ended soon – with one of them a prisoner, or both of them dead. In the best-case scenario for Irina, she was still an unmarried pregnant woman in a job already hostile to women, with the father of her children either in a gulag or, more likely, quickly executed. Jack could not quite bring himself to hope that this scenario would come to pass.

He had no way to help her, no possibility of assuming the responsibility that was rightfully his. He thought only of Irina; his mind could not yet admit the reality of a third person. A child. Their child.

"I should have been careful," Jack said quietly.

"So should I." They did not speak again for the rest of the night.

When Jack tried to broach the subject the next day, Irina only said, "Let's worry about it when we reach safety." He remained silent and wondered if that day would ever come.

**

The next day, they came upon a paved road; before long, in the distance, Jack could make out structures, multi-story buildings – a city. Although he and Irina had glimpsed some larger towns across the Mekong, this was the first they had come to that they could actually enter; probably it was Prek Kak.

"Prek Kak hadn't fallen, the last I heard," Jack said. He did not bother to say the rest, because he knew Irina already understood: Military officials here would consider an American agent an ally.

"But Khmer Rouge forces have been active in the East." Her reply meant: You may be no safer there than I am.

"Nothing to do but find out."

For a few moments, they simply stared at one another. For the first time since they'd made their pact a month ago, the prospect of survival was immediate and real. Two days ago, this would have been a blessed relief – even with the risk that Jack might soon be taken into KGB custody. Now, it just made the reality of Irina's pregnancy more powerful.

Consequences, Jack thought. It had seemed as if he'd outrun them. More fool him. Both of them.

They dressed in the native Cambodian clothing they'd found; Jack's trousers were a bit short, but not so markedly as to attract attention. With woven hats on and their heads bowed, they could probably move within the city for a while. Probably.

As they came within earshot of the city's noises, a small child in shirttails toddled past them, chased by a harried-looking mother who did not look twice at them. Jack decided that, as long as they were throwing caution to the wind, they might as well go all the way. He took Irina's hand in his; she did not pull back.

Within minutes, Jack knew that Prek Kak was still under FANK control. Men and women wore eyeglasses – forbidden as evidence of "intellectualism" by Khmer Rouge forces. A small open-air shop not only had a few books and pamphlets for sale, but a few of them were also in French. Western languages were as abhorrent to Pol Pot as Westerners themselves.

Irina saw it all too. "Looks like you win the bet."

"Irina – I don't want –"

"We made a deal." Her voice was steely, and she looked straight ahead, no longer bothering to bow her head. "I keep my promises, Jack."

A military truck turned the corner, FANK agents hanging from the sides, no weapons at the ready. They were talking, laughing, not on guard. A month ago, this would have been the sweetest sight imaginable; now Jack felt almost afraid.

"Wait," Jack said. He walked away from Irina without looking back, hoping she would take the hint and flee from capture.

But where could she go?

A few words in French explained his situation to the FANK guards, who were somewhat suspicious of the American suddenly in their midst – but willing to transport him to Phnom Penh as soon as he dropped the names of a few of their superiors. A truck would be leaving in a couple of hours, apparently; Jack realized with a start that he would probably spend the night in a bed. Of all the changes in their situation, that one somehow seemed the strangest.

"Is this the truck?" he said, pointing toward a large, supply-stocked vehicle nearby.

No, no, they said, their French so accented that it was hard for him to understand. That one was headed to Senomorom, to drop off supplies. If he got on that, he would be on the road until the dead of night, and much farther from his destination. Maybe he liked Cambodia so much he never wanted to leave?

Jack said much of their country was very beautiful, and he had employed a guide part of the way, someone he should now pay. He would return in time for the trip to Phnom Penh.

Irina was waiting only a few steps from where he'd left her – a testament not to her lack of imagination, Jack knew, but to her lack of options. Her eyes were dark, almost hollow. "They let you come back to arrest me on your own?"

"Nobody's under arrest. Come on." He took her arm, guiding her through the crowd.

"Do you want me to try the French-girl act again? Might be worth a shot." She said it in a way that made it clear she thought the attempt would be useless.

"I want you to get on this supply truck." Jack pointed to it; nobody was standing guard. "I'll walk you over there, provide a distraction if you need it. You can hide between the crates."

Her steps became quicker; for the first time since they had entered the city, Jack knew that Irina had hope. "Where is it going?"

"Senomorom – just a few miles from the border with Vietnam. You should be able to cross over easily within a day or two; after that, you can get to safety, make contact with your superiors."

"Helping a KGB agent escape? Won't look good on your record, Jack."

"This is never going to show up on my record, or yours. "

"Are you so eager to be rid of me?"

Jack squeezed her arm, just for a moment. "No. But I can't think of any other way for you to stay out of prison."

Irina's steps quickened; he could sense the strengthening of her purpose, as doubt was replaced by hope. "Then I like the way you think." He shrugged off the tent pack and offered it to her; she took it up smoothly, as though they'd rehearsed the move.

Fortunately, the FANK guards were busy, and Jack and Irina blended easily into the crowd. She was able to quickly hop into the truck and pull back into the shadows. She'll be safe, Jack thought, at least as safe as anyone is in this country. Only then did he realize he would never see her again.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For letting me go – and the rest, too."

"Just tell me –" Jack took a deep breath, then finished while he was still sure he could get it out. "Tell me if you're going to have the baby. I realize I don't have any say in this, but I want to know."

"Yes."

He stared at her, too surprised to feel anything else. Before Jack could speak, he heard one of the FANK guards calling after him.

Irina disappeared back into the shadows of the truck, now only a voice. "Goodbye, Henry."

"Goodbye, Natasha." He turned away and walked back to his rescuers, his ride home.

**

 _Aboard the_ U.S.S. Midway  
 _South China Sea_

 

"That's a hell of a journey, Bristow." The captain was smiling at him, approving rather than suspicious. Jack had waited for someone – anyone – to question how he could have made it from near the Laotian border all on his own, but nobody had. "You're lucky to be alive."

"Yes, sir, I am." They walked along the aircraft deck, a vast expanse of concrete and metal, shimmering with afternoon heat. A few of the sailors played basketball near the Iroquois helicopters, laughing and cursing, their dog tags jangling. "Thought I wouldn't make it out, most of the way."

"Fate can surprise you sometimes."

Dressed in clean trousers and a snowy-white T-shirt, well-fed and rested, Jack felt like almost an entirely different person than the one who had made his way through Cambodia. But the memory of Irina – her face, her voice – remained with him, as strong as ever.

I will never see her again, he thought. I'll never know –

The captain laughed, "Suppose you don't ever need to go back there again."

"I wouldn't mind," Jack said, surprising them both. "It's beautiful country. Someday, after all the fighting is over – I'd go back."

"Be a long time before that happens."

The sunlight played on the broad expanse of ocean, and Jack could no longer make out the shore. "I know," Jack said. "A very long time."

END PART ONE


	2. His Best Friend's Wife

_Washington, D.C.  
December 1973_

 

Laura was smiling, talking, mingling amid her party guests and having a ball. Irina wanted to throw herself from the roof.

The apartment she shared with her husband was packed with people, mostly men he worked with at the CIA and their wives or dates. Everyone was dressed up, the women in evening gowns and the men in suits, with the odd tuxedo here or there. The good Champagne she'd bought was overflowing from plastic cups, the same ones she'd assembled that afternoon – stem in bowl, stem in bowl, stem in bowl, over and over for an hour. Noisemakers howled out occasionally over the Rolling Stones playing on the stereo, and virtually everyone but Irina was wearing a cardboard top hat or plastic tiara. On television, sound completely drowned out by the music and chatter, Dick Clark shivered in a camel-hair coat amid the lights of Times Square.

She stepped toward the balcony, drawn to the relative stillness of the world outside. Their apartment was in one of the city's few high-rises, so they had a fine view of the Mall; the Washington Monument glowed on the horizon.

Of course, D.C. laws required that no building could be taller than the Washington Monument – so they could only go so high, no further. The symbolism was too clear for Irina's comfort.

A man whose belly nearly bulged from his jacket stumbled toward her, splashing his amber-colored drink in her direction; Irina was only just able to twist out of way in time to protect her white chiffon dress. The veils hanging from the jeweled collar around her neck fluttered – but she escaped unscathed.

"Willya look at that!" he laughed, without apologizing. "Laura, you've got good reflexes."

"It's a gift." She moved on quickly, trying to get closer to the balcony – a breath of fresh air would do her some good. But then her husband's arm wound around her waist, pulling her close, and Irina forced herself to smile.

"You look miserable, my darling." Arvin's voice was sympathetic, not condemning. He liked for his social events to go smoothly, but he understood Laura's more solitary nature. "My New Year's Resolution is for us to have more time alone together. A real vacation. Maybe a cabin up in the woods for a couple of weeks this summer."

"Right now, that sounds like heaven." She kissed his forehead, which was all she could do without ducking. The fact that Arvin was a few inches shorter than she was had never stopped her from wearing heels. To his credit, he had never suggested it.

Irina did not hate him. She had expected to, but he was kind, even devoted, as a husband; his attentiveness was not of the sort that prevented her from carrying out her assignment. Fortunately, her emotions for Arvin stopped there: a remote sort of fondness and gratitude, coupled with contempt for his blindness.

Every once in a while she remembered the girl he'd been seeing when Irina arrived in the United States – a meek, frizzy-haired thing named Emily – and felt some pity at having destroyed a genuine romance to replace it with a false one. Not very often, however. The mission was more important than anything else –

She finished her plastic glass of Champagne and handed it to Arvin. "I was going to step out on the balcony for a moment. Cool off."

"It's sweltering in here," Arvin agreed, but he gestured toward the glass doors. "However, I think you may be interrupting a scene."

From farther away, Irina had not been able to see more than a sliver of the skyline – but now she could see that the balcony was already occupied by Barbara Cooper (blond, green dress, high-pitched laugh) and Jack Bristow (tall, dark, Arvin's best friend), a couple of about six months' standing. To judge by the emphatic gestures Barbara was making, and the scowl on Jack's face, a seventh month would not be forthcoming.

As Arvin and Irina watched, Barbara picked up her glass of Champagne and tossed it in Jack's face.

"Oh, my," Arvin murmured. "Shall we rescue him?"

"She'll storm off in a minute." Women like that used hysterical gestures because they didn't have words. As expected, Barbara opened the door and re-entered the party, a too-fierce grin on her face. "I'll go outside. Talk to him until he's calm."

"And get your breath of fresh air." He smiled, patted her arm and let her go.

When Irina stepped through the sliding door, Jack glared over his shoulder, obviously ready for another round of arguments with Barbara. He breathed out sharply, almost as if in disappointment. "Laura. Hi."

She held out a paper cocktail napkin. "Most people wait to be sprayed with Champagne until after the stroke of midnight."

"You saw that, then." Jack's temper was often difficult – in the three years of her marriage to Arvin, Irina had never known quite how to handle him – but instead of snapping at her, he smiled rather ruefully as he dabbed the ruffled shirt of his tuxedo. "Sorry to make a scene at your party."

"The whole party is a scene. Don't worry about it."

He gave her an appraising look, and Irina realized she'd let her distaste for the party show too clearly. Jack read her reactions with uncanny accuracy sometimes; this was one of the reasons she had made certain not to get to know him too well. She could ill afford for one of Arvin's CIA colleagues to make the deduction he had failed to reach on his own – that his wife had a hidden agenda.

But Jack said nothing, and the sway of his body against the balcony railing revealed that he was more than a little drunk, though not soused enough to wear a party hat. Irina had never seen him even slightly out of control before. Perhaps this was a good opportunity to learn something about him without undue risk.

Irina glanced over her shoulder; Barbara's brilliant green dress wasn't visible in the throng of the party. "I think your date left."

"If she hasn't yet, she will soon." Jack winced, obviously from frustration rather than pain. "We came in her car. I'll need to call a taxi."

"We'll worry about that later." How best to approach it? She thought he was a man who would not appreciate coyness. "Why was Barbara so angry?"

"Apparently I can't commit."

Irina raised an eyebrow, hugging herself against the December chill. "Apparently?"

"My view on the matter is that I have no problems making commitments. I just don't choose to make any commitments to her. She didn't care for that assessment."

"I imagine not." She had never liked Barbara, who struck her as self-absorbed in the extreme, but she had it in her to pity the girl. "You could have put it more kindly."

He unknotted the bow tie at his throat. "If I'd had less to drink, I would have. Or I at least would have waited until a night when she wasn't driving."

Irina laughed, despite herself. "You're pitiless, Jack."

"That's not true." Jack spoke in a way that made Irina believe him – though she had always thought him pitiless before. "Dragging this out any longer would have been worse."

"I know it's hard. Finding someone, building a relationship, when your work is so demanding." Maybe being sympathetic would draw Jack out, she thought. But it did not; his lips tightened in a line that was not quite a smile.

"Arvin managed it. You want to let me in on the secret?"

The wind ruffled the chiffon layers of her dress, and Irina shivered. Jack took a step closer to her, as if to shelter her from the chill. Her earrings were cold as they brushed against her throat. "Arvin got lucky."

"That's no secret." Jack's voice was softened by a warmth Irina had never heard before, one she had not dreamed existed. Something within her was stirred, and she knew her response showed in her gaze. But she didn't turn away. Jack drew in a deep breath, as if to steady himself, and looked out at the city.

Irina was accustomed to the admiration of men, tasteful, vulgar and in every shade in-between. But in the three years she had known Jack Bristow, she had never detected the slightest interest from him, his neutrality so complete that she had at first wondered about his heterosexuality.

But now she knew: Even Jack Bristow had desires. And even Jack's self-control had limits.

She turned her head from him so that they were looking in the same direction. This far up from the city streets, sounds were muted; even the din of the party behind them was thickened by the glass doors, sound without words or meaning. Irina could imagine that she and Jack were alone, and she found she liked the illusion.

When she had slipped from the party, she'd wanted to escape from her duty, just for a moment. Now a more substantial escape beckoned – the first real risk to her mission Irina had contemplated in more than three years. She wondered if it was so tantalizing just because it was so forbidden, even within her own mind. Probably that was most of it. But some of it was Jack.

"You must be cold. I guess we should step inside," he said, obviously trying to end their encounter before he embarrassed himself.

Irina thought, Champagne has made him both weak and bold. She'd keep it in mind. "I'm fine. Really." Their eyes met. "Never better."

Then the voices inside the party mingled into a chant, so loud it drummed through the glass: "Five! Four! Three! Two! One – Happy New Year!" Noisemakers shrieked, and Arvin must have been standing at the stereo, because Guy Lombardo's horns began to play. The city's fireworks display began to pop and pound in the distance – green, blue and gold blazing into starbursts in the sky.

"Happy 1974." Jack smiled at her, his face outlined by the glow of fireworks. He made no move toward her; even drunk, he obviously recognized the danger of the moment.

Even sober, Irina was in a mood to take risks.

"Happy New Year, Jack," she murmured, brushing his cheek with her hand. Irina kissed him quickly – if Arvin were watching from inside, he would only smile and think it harmless – but her mouth was ever so slightly open, just enough to capture the swell of his bottom lip. Jack breathed in, so sharp it was almost a gasp, then kissed her again, just a little slower. It was delicious, turning her face up to kiss a man. And this man –

They swayed toward each other, then pulled back, sanity reclaiming Jack at the same moment she had guessed it would.

Irina gave him a smile, calculated to say That was a mistake, but a pleasant one we need not talk about again. Jack understood her. He stepped away, turning his sharp gaze onto the fireworks as though nothing had ever fascinated him more.

"Let me or Arvin know when you need a cab." She thought any other farewell might prove problematic. Jack's only response was a nod.

Smoothly Irina stepped through the sliding doors into the party's whirl, submitting to kisses from men and hugs from women until she made her way to Arvin. "Happy New Year, my darling," he murmured against her shoulder, embracing her tightly.

"And to you. Always." The kiss was easier when she was pretending.

**

Exhausted after their last guests had finally been poured into taxicabs, Arvin had agreed with Laura that post-party cleanup could wait until the next day. He spooned behind her in bed, but offered no other affection, for which she was grateful. Although their sex life was reasonably enjoyable, Irina longed for fantasy, not reality.

Jack Bristow was a controlled man. Inasmuch as Irina understood him, she thought he had few loyalties, but that these were fierce. His friendship with Arvin fell into that category. He would never indulge in a purely physical affair – he would have to be infatuated, even a little bit in love. Such volatile ingredients were generally to be avoided.

Irina had taken no lovers for pleasure since she arrived in the United States three – no, four years ago, she thought, adjusting to the newness of 1974. She possessed few freedoms, none of them sexual; her body belonged to her husband in one lie, their marriage -- and to her handler Gerard Cuvee in another, her supposed loyalty to the USSR. For all that her mission had long since lost its luster and meaning, Irina had continued to perform to the best of her considerable ability. At this point, what else did she have, besides failure?

Therefore, beginning an affair with Jack Bristow would be irresponsible at best, highly dangerous at worst.

Reason and caution told Irina to let the idea go. Jack's interest in her might well be a fleeting thing, a trick of the Champagne; how many New Year's kisses were blown out of proportion each year? Thousands, probably. Her interest in him had been only an abstract kind of physical appreciation before tonight, which meant that her present craving was probably just a temporary madness. She understood that it was as much rebellion as attraction – the first way she had ever considered allowing herself to act out against the confining bonds of her persona as Laura Sloane. And even if the affair did happen, the pleasures would be brief, the perils great and the aftermath undoubtedly painful.

But hours after midnight – hours after she lay in bed, Arvin's hand uncomfortably hot upon her skin – Irina could still feel Jack's mouth against hers.

**

Two months passed before they saw each other again.

During those two months, Laura devoted herself to her husband, seeing to his comforts, forgiving his absences, even agreeing to the summer-cabin plan she'd hoped he would forget. She also performed her tasks as a KGB agent with more zeal and accuracy than ever before, figuring out how to secret a microfiche reader in a typewriter-ribbon cartridge and pleasing her superiors so thoroughly that Gerard did not bother to mute their praise to keep her humble.

Every day, she thought about Jack.

Irina did not doubt that her self-control would win in the end. But when Arvin walked into their favorite French restaurant with Jack at his side, she realized how very tired she was of the battle.

"I'm sorry, Laura." Arvin kissed her cheek before taking his seat beside her at their customary table. Pink candles burned in silver sticks, casting wavery reflections on the china. "Not only have I run late, but I've brought a friend along to what was meant to be a romantic evening with my lovely wife."

"He insisted." Jack stood gripping the back of his chair, as though he still thought he might devise an exit scenario. "I don't mean to intrude."

Arvin pressed Jack's shoulder. "The man has been lurking in his office ever since New Year's." Irina watched Jack carefully; he didn't react. Now that she saw his self-control as a challenge rather than a barrier, she found she rather liked it. "Never goes out. A prime example of the walking wounded. When I realized he was planning on putting in another late night – I had to do something, didn't I?"

Of course, Irina thought. Arvin believed Jack's reaction was entirely about losing Barbara, and no doubt that was a part of it. But not all.

The knowledge that she had already shaken him was the last element – the drop of wine in the water that turned everything rose. Her well-founded caution drifted away into nothingness like the smoke from the candles.

"You're always welcome, Jack." Her smile had just enough warmth to inspire curiosity, no more. "Please, join us."

Dinner went smoothly, with Irina and Jack each on their best behavior. She had no intention of rushing this; Jack appeared determined to pretend that nothing had happened at all. His act was good enough to fool most people. So she was surprised when, on the way home from the restaurant, Arvin said, "Jack wasn't himself tonight. I found him – awkward, I suppose."

"He's not the most socially adroit of your friends."

"Jack can charm the birds from the sky when he feels like it. But his breakup with that girl – it's affected him. More deeply than I would have supposed."

Irina let a few seconds pass afterward, as though she weren't paying that much attention to her husband's words. The soft green glow of the dashboard illuminated the facets of her wedding ring. After Arvin turned a corner, she said, idly, "You should ask him around more often. Jack, I mean."

"I never thought you liked him."

"I've never known him well enough to like or dislike him," Irina replied, speaking honestly. "But I talked with him at New Year's, remember?"

He nodded, still focused on the road. "Right, right. You probably realized he was heartbroken before I did."

As they entered their building's garage, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, smoothed the hem of her dress. Instinct – putting things in order before introducing an element of chaos. "He's the sort of man who retreats into himself after he's been hurt. Don't let him do that, Arvin. We should draw him out. Spend some time with him, each of us." Inspired, she added, "After I know him better, I might think of someone to set him up with."

The car came to a stop, and Arvin looked at her, his gaze hard and appraising; for a moment, Irina was certain she had underestimated her husband, dangerously so. But he said only, "I never dreamed you understood him so well."

"I'm a good judge of character." She traced his chin with one fingertip. "I fell in love with you, didn't I?"

She could feel Arvin's smile even during his kiss.

**

Arvin held true to his word; slowly, Jack Bristow became a larger presence in their lives. At first, Jack's appearances were few and obviously against his better judgment. Whether he came to the house for dinner or joined them at the theater, Jack always projected that he'd been dragged there against his will and longed only for escape.

But Irina kept her distance, dedicated herself to her husband, and slowly, so slowly, coaxed Jack off his guard.

When Arvin had to cancel a trip to the ballet, Irina was able to arrange it so that he thought it was his own idea to ask Jack to escort Laura in her husband's place. Then, when she and Jack were seated next to each other in the box, he was so evidently bored by the dancing that it was only polite for her to distract him with witty asides – murmured into his ear, so as not to disturb others.

When she joined the university's chess club, who better to ask for advice than a game theorist? Jack didn't have time to come to the matches, of course, nor did Irina attend them nearly as often as she suggested. But given her own talents at the game, it was easy to devise scenarios and ask Jack's ideas for eluding them. He was a clever man when it came to traps, attack and evasion. Sometimes they would lean over a game board together to demonstrate strategies while Arvin was on the phone in the corner. Jack's hands were large enough to span black's half of the board.

When she got a flat tire one stormy day while Arvin was in high-level meetings, Irina weighed the merits of changing it herself versus calling Jack for help. Despite the howling wind and splattering rain, she knew Jack would come. But – for a flat tire? She didn't want him to think her entirely helpless. Some men would find that attractive, but not him. Finally Irina compromised by putting the lug wrench in her tote bag, then calling Jack from the nearby pay phone and confessing she'd left it in the garage. Jack arrived quickly and took care of the flat for her; she stood next to him the entire time, holding the umbrella over his head. Her thigh brushed against his back.

When Irina took up running, it was only natural to ask Jack along for evening miles when Arvin was out of town. With the crime rate on the rise, he didn't want her to go alone any more than her husband did. To her surprise, Jack took this a step further by suggesting she learn how to defend herself.

"That's – extremely good, Laura." Jack stared at the target as it came clacking toward them, the outline of a man's torso peppered with gunshots. Irina put the earmuffs down, still elated with her success at the firing range and the too-long-absent thrill of a gun's kick against her palm. "You've shot before, and you didn't tell me."

Better not to feign complete ignorance. She should have fired to miss – but she hadn't wanted to. "You caught me. Can you believe I took target shooting in college?"

"Literature programs are more involved than I thought. Does this have something to do with Chekhov's gun?"

"Even lit majors need P.E. credits to graduate. I overslept on the day of registration, and by the time I got there, the only athletics classes open were target shooting and advanced weightlifting." This won her a genuine smile from Jack, the first she thought she'd ever seen.

"I'll be hard-pressed to outshoot you," he said, though he took the earmuffs from her with the apparent intention of doing just that. But then Jack hesitated and studied her, a serious appraisal that made Irina's stomach turn over, warm and soft. "I want to ask you something."

"Anything." It came out lightly, the reply of someone without a care in the world.

"Arvin would kill me if he knew I was asking you this –" Irina's heart did not beat for the instant it took Jack to finish. "—but have you ever considered joining the Agency?"

She could not have hidden her shock even if she'd tried; fortunately, it worked for Laura just as well. "The CIA? You're joking."

"Not so loudly, and no, I’m not."

He wasn't. "Why on earth do you think I'd want to do this?"

"You're as smart as any of the men in the agency, smarter than a lot of them. You speak five languages –"

She actually spoke nine, but she hadn't admitted Mandarin, Japanese, Farsi or Romanian to her husband.

"—you understand the rudiments of game theory, and you understand more about global politics than a lot of so-called experts I've had to listen to."

She'd said too much to him over their dinners and runs and car rides. Irina could not give herself away like this, not to Jack Bristow, not for a simple flirtation.

"You're in excellent physical condition," Jack said, determinedly keeping his eyes on her face, "and you know how to think tactically. Last of all, you're a dead shot. Part of my job is sizing up potential recruits; if I met anyone else with your capabilities or anything close, I'd ask them. So I'm asking you."

Trying to turn it into a joke, Irina folded her arms. "Do you get points for every person you invite? Have I won you a toaster?"

"If I were trying to get ahead at the office, I wouldn't do it by suborning Arvin's wife." Jack was probably saying more than he meant to, but Irina was distracted by his next words. "Besides – forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I think you'd find the work challenging. I suspect you don't get enough challenges."

"And you're challenging me," she said softly.

"Sometimes I see you standing in the middle of Arvin's cocktail parties, listening to small talk -- and I know you're so bored you want to scream." The insight felt more intimate than any touch she'd experienced in years. Jack could no longer meet her eyes. "You deserve something to fight for. And I think you want that."

"You're very sure what I want, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not sure of that at all."

Now they were close – too close, given that they were in a public place in the middle of the day, and Arvin would be home for supper. Irina turned her head toward the target in front of them, a human silhouette shot through so completely that light filtered through the center. For a moment, she considered Jack's offer seriously. If she made it through CIA training – and, of course, she could – she would become a double agent and an even greater asset to the KGB than she already was. Though her initial clearance level would be low, Irina thought her ascent might be quick – and in that case, her marriage to Arvin Sloane might no longer be a necessity.

Quickly she shook her head, dismissing the thought for her and for Jack at once. If the CIA probed her background thoroughly, she'd end up rotting in a cell. "It's not for me, Jack. But I'm flattered that you asked."

"Don't mention it." He smiled a little, trying to move with her past their uncertain closeness. "I mean that. Never mention it to Arvin."

"I never tell him about our talks. Those are between you and me." With that, Irina handed him the gun.

**

About two weeks after the trip to the shooting range, Irina convinced Arvin to invite Jack out for drinks at a nearby club. Jack showed up with a date.

Michelle had straight black hair, deep red lips and a body even Irina could envy. It was all she could do not to kick the wretch's seat out from under her. Of all the damned stupid times for Jack to find a girl, any girl, much less one who might be difficult to get rid of.

But by the time their first round had reached the table, Irina felt significantly less threatened. "You guys work for the State Department?" Michelle said to Arvin, her eyes wide. "Wow. That's really far out."

"Far, far out," Arvin said, so seriously that Irina remembered why she liked him a little. Jack had the good grace to look embarrassed as he sipped his Manhattan.

On the way home, she proclaimed, "All breasts, no brains."

"Come, now." Arvin's smile was sly. "After a few months of heartbreak, I think Jack could use some time nestled in the bosom of human kindness."

Irina scowled at him, overdoing it, making a joke of her displeasure. Arvin chuckled, no doubt thinking her jealousy was entirely due to her husband noticing another woman's cleavage. Her fingernails dug into her arms through the thin polyester of her sleeves. "I just don't think it's going to last."

"You're probably right. But I suspect he knows that, don't you? Losing Barbara hit him too hard. A young man like Jack should be out there enjoying himself. Sowing his wild oats."

"He's not a boy any more. Jack's the same age you were when we married. Isn't he?"

"You forget, my darling. I had the good fortune to find you." He patted her hand. "I know you had ambitions of finding Jack's ideal woman yourself, and you'll no doubt have your chance. But let him have some fun."

She prepared for bed as if in a kind of trance, more fixated on Jack Bristow than she ever had been before; he had been more right than he knew when he said that she wanted something to fight for. The fact that Michelle was such flimsy competition in some ways honed the fine edge of her desire. Did Jack know that he was trying to use the girl as a shield, as a defense against what had already begun between them?

Probably he did. Jack was smart enough to catch on. He knew what he was doing when he asked Michelle out, brought her along – no doubt he knew even tonight, as he took her to bed.

"You looked lovely tonight," Arvin whispered, kissing her shoulder as he crawled into bed. "Very lovely."

His hand stole across her hip. Irina switched off the light and turned to her husband.

Jack was with Michelle right now. She imagined her tugging away his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. He would close his eyes tightly during every kiss, imagining someone else's lips against his, someone else's tongue slipping into his mouth. Their lights were off too.

The images flickered in her mind, disconnected from one another, an erotic kaleidoscope: Jack's mouth between Michelle's legs, his cock in her hands, taking her from behind as she panted and whimpered, biting softly into her shoulder as he pushed into her from above, and all the while pretending –

"You're wild tonight," Arvin gasped against her belly. Irina barely heard him. Her hands twisted in the sheets, tugging them so that the fine cotton strained and tore at the corner.

She managed not to call out anyone's name, and hoped Jack had had the same luck.

**

Michelle lasted longer than Irina would have thought – all the way into August. Her annoyance at the girl's presence quickly faded; it was far less suspicious to coax Arvin into inviting a couple over for drinks or dinner. Whenever they arrived for an evening, Michelle inevitably ended up plying Arvin with questions and chatter, monopolizing his attention. It was not flirtation, but Michelle was the breed of woman who didn't consider another woman's acquaintance worth having, not if a man's could be had. That left Irina and Jack to amuse one another in the corner.

"She's delightful," Irina said one night, watching Michelle animatedly explain to Arvin which cars were very, very cool right now.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that."

"That's not very gentlemanly of you."

"I'm not talking about my opinion, Laura. I'm talking about yours."

She waited a few seconds to answer, trailing her fingernails along the empty indentations in the Chinese Checkers game board. Even a child's pursuit was challenging, with Jack across the table. "What I meant was – I think she's probably good for you, right now."

"Good for me." Something unpleasant lurked in his voice. "When did you start making prescriptions for my love life?"

Irina kept her gaze fixed on the board, where the colors were bright and the divisions clear. "I just want you to be happy."

"Is that what you want?"

Instead of answering, she remained silent. Irina let the pause speak for her, so that he would be the one to fill in the words – so that he would hear exactly what he needed to hear.

Jack breathed out sharply; from the corner of her eye, she could tell that he had turned toward Arvin and Michelle, anxious lest they be overheard. Her pulse quickened, and the anger when he spoke was delicious. "For the past – I don't know how long – you've been doing everything you could do to –"

"To what?" She locked her gaze with his, holding him fast. If Jack pushed the point, her entire game would be over before it had even begun. But Arvin was only a few feet away, and that held his tongue. She straightened up, tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered, "You're projecting. And I don't think either of us can afford to think about this any longer."

Then she went into the kitchen to wash up. When Jack and Michelle left a few minutes later, she hugged them each before they walked out the door. Michelle's perfume was some cheap drugstore brand. Jack's heart beat fast against her chest.

**

Arvin requested a two-week leave of absence to take his wife up to the long-promised cabin in the Pennsylvania woods. Unwilling to go without seeing Jack for even that long, Irina made hints about how lonely it would be, how isolated. And didn't Arvin rough it enough at his job? It was her last chance to get him to cancel the vacation plans, and she thought he was finally recognizing her lack of enthusiasm for the plan.

Instead, he invited Jack and Michelle to join them.

Her objections to this appalling change were to no avail. "I cannot believe you're carrying on like this." Arvin snapped his morning paper into reading position, using it to create a wall between them. "You've asked to socialize with them often enough. I thought this would be a treat for you."

The tension between her and Jack was too high, too crushing; if they were together all day, every day, for two weeks – they would not be able to hide it. Friendship and love might blind Arvin, as they had so far. But Michelle's dark eyes had begun to flicker over to Jack and Irina when they sat together. Dim though the girl was, when it came to men she was a predator both as primitive and single-minded as a shark, aware of nothing but prey and those who would steal it. And she was just the sort to make a scene.

It might not come to that, of course. Jack's desire had already sharpened to the point that it was hurtful to him; two weeks of nonstop contact might force him to strengthen the self-control she'd so painstakingly chipped at the past few months. After that, there might be no reaching him. She would have to be very careful. This vacation was no vacation at all.

When the day finally came, though, she determined to make the best of it. Arvin and Jack were both delayed by work, so Irina packed up the car and drove up on her own, enjoying her escape from the city, the feeling of being slowly enveloped by the cool, leafy trees. She wore blue jeans and a snug gray T-shirt; a red bandanna held her hair back. Irina drove with the window open.

The cabin was nestled deep in the forest, not far from a stream, just as Arvin had promised. Two bedrooms, which shared a wall: well, that would be interesting. A fireplace testified to the building's age, wide and deep enough for cooking, the bricks irregular and obviously fitted by hand. But the cabin belonged to the modern world, with plumbing, electricity and a phone that looked to be from the 1940s, but still worked. A perfect lovers' getaway.

Poor Arvin. He'd chosen his gift so well, and yet so poorly.

Irina tidied up the place, then lounged on the sofa with a Joan Didion novel for a while. Arvin called at sundown.

"My love," Arvin said, his voice warm and caring – too much so. He was at his gentlest when he knew he'd done wrong. "How are you?"

"You're going to be late, aren't you?"

"Worse than that. I'm not going to be able to come."

Irina slumped back against the wall. "You're kidding. It's an emergency?"

"It's important enough that I have to leave immediately, and I don't see any way I'll get back within the next two weeks. I won't even be able to call. Laura, I know I promised you this time together, and I'm sorry."

"I understand." Her mind raced; would the listening devices she'd planted in Arvin's gear be enough to detail the mission? Normally she would get a chance to double-check things before he left. This was wretched timing in more ways than one. "I suppose Jack is going with you."

"Jack? No, he's on an entirely different task force right now. As far as I know, he left around lunchtime; he and Michelle should be there any minute. So at least you'll have some company."

Irina had no intention of spending so much as twenty-four hours as the third wheel. "I'll probably drive back after a bit, let the lovebirds have the nest. It wouldn't be any fun for me here, without my husband."

"I'll miss you. And I'll make it up to you, Laura." She won other promises from him before he hung up.

No sooner had she replaced the receiver in the cradle, than she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Irina took a deep breath and placed a cheery smile on her face as she went to the screen door.

Jack stepped out of the car alone.

She walked out onto the porch slowly, still uncomprehending. "Jack. Where's Michelle?"

"At the beach, with her ex-boyfriend. As it turns out, her definition of 'ex' differs from mine. However, we both agree that the term now applies to me." He walked only as far as the step, looking up at her cautiously, eyes narrowed. "Where's Arvin?"

"On a mission. They pulled him away this afternoon. He won't be coming back for weeks."

Their eyes met, and Irina knew in that moment that pretense would be of no avail. Only a fool wouldn't know the danger between them now, and Jack would not surrender to a fool. She lifted her chin, refusing to look away.

Jack stood motionless, struggling with himself and not attempting to hide it. At this point there was nothing she could do to coax him closer; this was his battle to fight, and hopefully to lose.

His voice low, he said, "I should leave."

Irina took a deep breath. "Yes. You should."

The sunlight flickered down on them through the leaves; the soft rustling in the breeze was the only sound other than their breathing. As she watched Jack's face – now determinedly focused on a point just past her shoulder, fooling no one – Irina felt a shiver in her belly, the suspension between shame and delight.

Then Jack sighed. "I'm going." His fist closed again around his car keys, like someone clutching a talisman. "Goodbye."

He might as well have slapped her. Disappointment clutched at her throat, stung her eyes, blistered her cheeks. She had never wept for a man – never, not even as a girl in school – until today. But not now. Not in front of him.

"Goodb –" Irina let the word go, spun on her foot and walked blindly away, pushing through the ferns alongside the cottage.

"Laura, no. Not like this." Jack followed her, and she hated his footsteps on the ground, the snapping of twigs. "Just say goodbye. It would – be easier –"

"For who?" She intended to say nothing else.

But then she stumbled over a tree root, a knot poking up from the dirt. Irina didn't even lose her footing, just staggered to one side – but it was enough to bring Jack's hand to her arm to steady her. His touch blinded her to humiliation or sorrow, and when their eyes met, she watched Jack's resolve catch fire and burn to nothing.

She kissed him, an abrupt, jerky motion that almost missed his lips. But the contact made them both tense, and she could hear Jack swallow hard. Irina found it strangely difficult to look him in the eyes; his gaze seemed to strip her bare, and not in the way that she longed for, and yet she couldn't look away.

He clutched her to his chest, a single convulsive movement that could have been acceptance or denial – and then he was kissing her back, his tongue in her mouth, his hands at her waist, and Irina didn't have to wait any longer.

The first time was terrible – awkward and rushed. They kissed frantically, pulling off their clothes, ignoring all other foreplay; Irina knew they were pushing one another past that line, beyond the barrier of second thoughts. He shoved her on her back upon the ground, a fern brushing against her cheek, a stone hard against her shoulder blade. The last of the sunshine outlined his body above hers, so that there was only his silhouette and almost blinding light. She enjoyed the knowledge that he was her lover at last more than the hurried motions, or the too-brief sensation of him inside her. Within a few minutes it was over, each of them sitting in the dirt, breathing hard, with Jack's abandoned car keys lying among the leaves nearby.

Jack spoke first. "I didn't want it to come to this."

"Neither did I." The only difference, Irina thought, was that she knew she was lying. Jack might become aware of his self-deception over time.

He took her hand and folded it between his, almost reverently, a touch more intimate than their lovemaking had been. At first, the expression on his face puzzled her, until she realized he was – for the first time ever with her – completely sincere. "Laura, what are we going to do?"

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear." The sharpness of her voice startled Irina nearly as much as it obviously did Jack. She leaned toward him even as she said, "What's happening between us – it has nothing to do with my marriage."

"How can you say—"

"I am bound to Arvin in ways you don't know and can't imagine." The words broke in her throat. Irina forced herself to keep talking. "I won't leave him, not for you, not for any other man. Do you understand that?"

Jack turned his face from her, as if struck. He had envisioned more than a simple affair, then; he was imagining high drama, confrontations with Arvin – too many things. At least she'd disabused him of that notion. Irina tried to ignore the visions of that alternate future, the one she hadn't allowed herself to glimpse, the one she had just taken away from her lover.

Jack finally said, "If you feel like that -- then why are we here?"

"You know why." It was the kind of non-answer that he would probably let her get away with. "I won't feel guilty for this, Jack, and I won't ease your conscience. I don't look back. Neither should you."

For a few moments he studied her, and Irina felt that he had never seen her as truly as he did just then; she had torn away some of his illusions, and yet he only seemed more drawn to her, not less. That was intriguing. He folded his arms across his knees, somehow dignified despite his posture and their nudity. "Tell me what you want."

How long had it been since she'd been able to answer that question truthfully? To tell anyone the complete truth about anything? Irina felt her smile well up from inside her. "I want to stay here with you. While we're here, I don't want to think about anyone or anything else in the world. Just for now, Jack."

"So we spend two weeks here." His voice was deceptively light. "We never tell Arvin –"

Her husband's name was heavy in the air. But Jack kept on.

"—and when it's over, that's it."

"Exactly."

"That's enough for you?"

"It has to be." Irina was already tired of dwelling on hard reality. Just once, she had been given a fantasy, and she meant to enjoy it. She held out her hand. "Come on. It's getting colder. Let's go inside."

She watched him hesitate, then realize there was no more point in hesitation. They gathered up their dusty clothes, went into the cabin and took a shower. Jack was tender with her, gently cleaning the small cut the stone had made on her back, but she noticed that he scrubbed his own skin so hard that he turned red.

Irina took the washcloth from him and kissed him again. Jack slowly relaxed into her touch, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her ears. Steam curled around them, thickening the air and making her feel drunk. This was what she had daydreamed about – Jack's thumb drawing a lazy circle around her nipple, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat, her hands gripping his ass to pull him closer. His fingers threaded through her wet hair, water flowing around them, as she sank to her knees, tasted him, took him deep in her mouth so that he groaned. This was what she had wanted, what she had been denied. Finally, they stumbled to bed together, kissing every step. She guided Jack to the room that was "his," as if leaving Arvin's room empty for him, should he arrive.

**

The next days ran into one another, bleeding softly from shade to shade like watercolors. They slept when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, made love virtually every other moment they were physically able. Day and night ceased to have meaning. Irina did not think about what would happen after she and Jack left the cabin, and if he did, he kept the knowledge from her.

"I knew you would be like this," she murmured one afternoon, pulling his shoulders toward her so that he sat upright. His broad hands spanned her waist, measuring her tempo, slow and sweet.

"Like what?" Jack dropped a kiss upon her collarbone. His hair was damp with sweat.

"How your hands would feel against my body. The way you would kiss. All of it." Irina rocked against him, changing the angle, and they both shuddered. "You're just the way I knew you would be."

He had a delectable smile. Pity so few people ever saw it. "I'm going to have to come up with some ways to surprise you."

"That's not what I meant –" But Irina's words faded away as he brought his mouth to her breast, teasing her with tongue and teeth until she could only gasp, not speak.

Jack did surprise her, both in bed and beyond it. She had expected him to raise the subject of Arvin again before long, but he kept his silence. And he proved astonishingly romantic for such a stoic man; never would she have imagined that Jack Bristow could talk about the way her face looked in the moonlight, or that he could do so without sounding foolish in the least.

"Where do you keep this softer side of yourself?" she teased one night as he braided her hair, gravely intent.

"The same place you keep your fiercer side." Jack never looked away from her hair, or else he might have seen how his words startled her.

"We choose our hiding places well." But not well enough, Irina thought. Not if she had let Jack understand anything about her, anything real.

Yet the words spilled from her all the same; the only way Irina could accept this was by making sure he shared his secrets with her in return. One day, as they ate a lazy lunch on the porch, she coaxed stories from Jack about his childhood, days at school, bikes he'd owned and ball teams he'd followed. It was almost impossible to imagine him as a child. "You were always serious, weren't you? A man even when you were a boy."

"Not always," he said. His white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, open at the neck. The brown beer bottle in his hand was sweating cold beads of water. "But often. And you were – never silly. I can't imagine you as one of those girls at school dances. Giggling in the corner."

"Of course not." Irina said this with all the scorn it deserved. "I was a pickpocket and a curfew-breaker, and I told my parents stories all the time. And they always believed me. Well, almost always."

"Because you were that good." He smiled at her, approving of this fragment of her real history more than Arvin had ever enjoyed any of her false tales. Even if it was dangerous, Irina couldn't help telling him more; the truth tasted good in her mouth, and it had been too long.

If Arvin and Jack ever talked about her childhood, the discrepancies in the stories would become evident very quickly. Irina suspected that would never happen.

Some evenings, they would tune the old-fashioned radio (a box in the corner that rose from the floor to her elbows) into a station and listen or even dance. Jack could only be persuaded to slow dance, and that only after much pleading. Irina considered it worth the effort; she liked swaying in Jack's arms, kissing his throat, the slide from dancing to sex so smooth that she could draw no line between them.

"I love the way you touch me," she whispered, as he lay her back on the bed, music still softly playing on the radio.

"I love to touch you." He lowered himself over her so that there seemed to be no one else in the world.

The same sort of meaningless things that every man and woman say to each other, and will always say, Irina would think, until the end of time. It was easier for her to consider it in that light, and not to dwell on how many excuses she and Jack found to say the word "love."

**

In the afternoon of the tenth day, they hiked up the hill and halfway back again, before Irina decided on a whim that it should be a race. When she began to run, Jack matched her; first they laughed, shouting encouragement or playful insults at one another – and then they went quiet, running in earnest. Irina pushed herself, skidding through tall grass, leaping over a fallen branch easily as tall as a hurdle. It felt like flying.

Giddy with victory, she ran to the side of the cabin, slapped it to make a smack he would hear. Jack, just behind her, smiled – but he wasn't amused, and Irina could tell. "Oh, come on," she scoffed. "You're not going to get in one of your moods because you lost a race."

"No." He pulled at the neck of his white T-shirt, mopping his brow before letting it fall. Jack's eyes were strangely intent. "I didn't know you could run like that."

She gathered her hair in one hand at the base of her neck, flopping it up and down to create a bit of a breeze. "Obviously."

"We've gone running together." He wasn't becoming less serious, only more so. "Were you always going slower than you knew you could? Every other time?"

Irina shrugged. "We were working out. Not racing."

"Laura – I don't understand. Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" Her own temper was beginning to darken; Jack didn't know when to stop asking questions.

"Settling for less. A career that doesn't challenge you. A social life you don't enjoy." Jack hesitated, then finished, "A husband you don't love."

He'd set his trap so well that she hadn't realized it until too late. Irina held up a hand. "We aren't discussing this."

"Actually, we are. And don't start telling me that I don't have the right to talk about your marriage. You've given me the right, and you know it."

Irina walked away from him into the cabin, letting the screen door bang shut behind her. But Jack followed, not a man to be put off by displays of temper. Before he could speak again, she said, "I told you to drop the subject."

"Answer me, and I will. Why are you so determined to stay married to a man you don't love?"

"Do you think I'm in love with you instead?" Sweat was drying on her skin, making her feel grimy and tired. Jack stood listening to her with his hands by his sides, as if their disagreement had turned him to stone. She had not realized until now that he became still when he was angry. "I'm not. I can give excellent reasons, if your ego needs further abuse."

"Thanks for the offer. But I can't help noticing that you haven't told me I'm wrong. You haven't said one word about loving your husband."

"I won't leave Arvin for you."

"You still haven't said it." Jack's eyes narrowed. "Does Arvin know this is how you feel? He couldn't. He – he worships you too much." The shame in his voice almost made her embarrassed for him.

With her coldest smile, Irina said, "Aren't you noble? Protecting your friend."

"I'm under no illusions about my nobility. Or yours." He took one step toward her, as hesitant as though they had never touched. "We're alike. You know we are. You don't love Arvin –"

"You don't know half as much as you think you do." Only one way out now. Irina felt the four days that might have been – tugging at her, insistent with longing, but she knew what was necessary. "Jack, I want you to go."

"Tonight?"

"Now."

"You – just like that –"

"How did you think this was going to end?" Irina felt her throat tighten, and so she waited a few breaths before she continued. If her voice cracked, Jack would know – she didn't want to name it, what he'd know if he heard how this hurt her. When she spoke again, her words were even steadier. "I don't have any grand speeches for you. I know you well enough to understand that you don't have any for me. Pack your bags, get in your car, and get out. It's over."

Silence for a few shaky breaths. Then Jack turned and went into the bedroom, where Irina could hear him throwing his things into his bag. She sank down onto the couch, legs trembling – mostly from the aftermath of the race, she told herself. Now that Jack's departure was imminent, she only wanted him gone. The tension of these last moments – when it was not too late for her to make a mistake more cataclysmic than any other – was too much to bear.

He hesitated at the door, and she held her breath until he said, "I came here with Michelle. We stayed with you for ten days, fighting the whole time, until we broke up. I drove her home. You stayed the rest of the time."

It wasn't as though Arvin was likely to run into Michelle in their social circles, so that she could contradict this story. "Sounds fine to me."

"Goodbye, Laura."

She didn't say anything in reply. The screen door banged, and Irina flinched from the noise.

That night, she lay on the sofa for hours, listening to the radio, imagining that every sound from outside was Jack's car, winding its way back up the gravel path to her door. But it never was, and she never really expected it to be.

**

Even before Arvin returned home the following week, Jack had left the country.

"Long-term assignment," Arvin told her as they had brunch at her favorite restaurant. He was being especially indulgent with her, to make up for the lost vacation. "Jack takes these split-ups harder than I would have thought. Thank goodness he's already with the agency – otherwise, we'd have to worry about him joining the French Foreign Legion."

"After ten days of hearing Jack Bristow fight with that bimbo Michelle, I'm really ready to talk about someone else." Irina smiled gently at Arvin over coffee. At least she knew what to expect from him – and what he expected from her. It was easier to simply do her job.

She tried not to think about Jack often, though this became more difficult as the weeks went on. At first, Irina hoped desperately that Jack's assignment would take him away from the United States for a year or more, but he inconveniently reappeared, tanned and too thin, about three months after he'd left. Arvin was happy, because that meant they could ask Jack to their upcoming dinner party; after the initial dread, Irina realized they should just as well get it over with.

So Jack came to their house with everyone else that night, nodded at her politely and made small talk with other people in the far corner of the room. He did a wonderful job of ignoring her until Arvin tapped his glass for a toast.

"We gathered all of you here tonight for a reason." Arvin smiled as Irina had never seen him, transformed into a younger and perhaps a better man. "This is a happy occasion, not just because our friends are here with us, but because Laura and I have important news we wanted to share."

He held out his hand, and Irina took it; she needed the support as she looked directly at Jack, whose face was already pale.

Cupping her other hand over her belly, she said, "In six months, we'll have a new addition to the Sloane household."

Cheers, clapping, hugging, congratulations. Irina accepted them all, but she was aware only of Jack. He did not speak to her – could no longer even meet her eyes – but he went to Arvin and clasped his hand. "Isn't it amazing?" Arvin said to his friend.

"I'm happy for you." Jack had never sounded less convincing, in Irina's opinion, but Arvin was too blinded by joy and pride to hear it.

After another hour or so, Irina begged leave to get some fresh air on the balcony. It did help with the occasional waves of nausea, but mostly she wanted some privacy, so that Jack would interrupt it.

Within five minutes, the glass door slid open, then shut, and Jack took his place beside her. Together they looked out on the city, breathing in the crisp autumn air.

"You know what I'm going to ask," Jack said. "Just say yes or no."

He wouldn't believe any denials, not without his own investigation, after which he'd learn the truth. So Irina thought it best to fight this battle head-on, immediately.

"Yes. You're the father."

His hands tightened on the railing. For a while, Jack struggled for control, and Irina let him; she told herself that she pitied him, and that only this made her throat tight and her head dizzy. That was the only reason she wanted to hold him – not that she ever would again.

Finally, Jack spoke again, his voice thready and strange. "Arvin doesn't know."

"Of course not."

"I can't just – stand by, while my child grows up –"

"Loved? Taken care of? What is it you think you'd be protecting the baby from?" Irina stepped closer to him, knowing that everything depended on winning this argument, right now. "You're thinking of yourself, Jack. I'm asking you to think of Arvin."

"Now, you're thinking of Arvin?"

"I've put my husband's feelings first," she said smoothly. "The question is, will you do the same? Look at him. He's happier than he's ever been. You have two choices: You can betray your friend again by taking that happiness away, or you can make up for what you've done by allowing him to be a father, and live the life he's always wanted. It's your choice."

She and Jack both turned to look at Arvin, who was at that moment cheerfully being toasted with Champagne. When she glanced back, the terrible love in Jack's face was not for her, and for a strange moment, she was jealous of both her husband and her unborn baby.

"My choice." Jack kept looking at Arvin, but Irina did not think he saw his friend anymore. He wore the distant stare of a man consumed by his own guilt, and doubt, and anger. "I can choose between losing my best friend forever or giving up my own child. What kind of a choice is that?"

"The one you set yourself up for the first time you touched me."

"The one you set me up for." When their eyes met, Irina could see no shadow of – whatever it was that she and Jack had shared – in him. From the beginning, she'd known that he would hate her in the end. That didn't make his hatred easier to face. "You think I don't see it now? I've been over every second we spent together. I didn't recognize your seduction in time, but I do recognize it, Laura. I know what you are. I think maybe Arvin should know too. He'll despise me, just like I deserve, but maybe I owe him that."

Real fear made Irina cover her belly with her hand, but instantly she decided to use that impulse. "And what do you owe this child?"

"Her father –"

"You and I are past dreaming about picket fences, don't you think?" Jack turned his face from her, but she pressed on. "There's only one way you can be sure that this child grows up with a loving father. You know it as well as I do."

Jack sucked in a breath, like someone steadying himself to avoid being sick. "The last time we were here, you called me pitiless. You ought to know."

"We made a mistake," Irina whispered. She was gentler now; she could afford to be. Victory was in her grasp. "That mistake can destroy our lives, and Arvin's – and a child who deserves to grow up safe and loved will only know a broken home. Or the mistake can remain in the past. That's where I've put it. You have to do the same. Not for my sake, or even for Arvin's. For the baby."

After a long, silent moment, Jack said only, "I will always be here." It was a warning.

Then he left her on the balcony alone, to face the knowledge that this silence would be their last goodbye.

That night, Arvin massaged her back and neck; normally, this was a service she gave him, but he'd been more attentive since she revealed her pregnancy. "Why not Jacquelyn? Our friend –"

"It's not that. I simply don't like the name." Irina leaned her head forward, enjoying his fingertips against her skin. She had a sudden memory of Jack doing this (was that the fourth night? The fifth? They were already blurring together), and she couldn't entirely suppress a sigh.

"I think someone's telling me to drop that subject." He kissed the top of her head. "You're so beautiful, Laura. Son or daughter, I hope our child looks like you."

She gave him a teasing smile. "That would be ideal."

Arvin embraced her from behind, studying their reflections in the mirror of her vanity. "But perhaps it's not too much to hope that this baby has a little of its father's spirit."

Irina's hands curved around her belly again. "Perhaps."

 

END PART TWO


	3. Larisa

_Los Angeles, California  
October 1990_

 

"I swear, J.D., you've hardly even touched your omelet." Darcy took out her lighter and another pack of Virginia Slims; she always insisted they meet at outdoor cafes, where she could smoke with impunity. "Are you on a diet? Hard to tell in that suit you're wearing, but I'd say you don't need it."

"I had a late dinner last night. Which means no real appetite for brunch."

She arched one penciled eyebrow. "And something's on your mind, isn't it?"

"Nothing significant."

"Tell it to somebody who doesn't know you like I do, champ. I know when you're tying yourself up in knots, and you're doing it right now. Big time. Like – macramé of the soul."

Jack sighed. Darcy's ability to read his emotions waxed and waned, but it was annoyingly accurate at the moment.

Maybe all ex-wives won this kind of mind-reading ability along with the alimony.

He hadn't married young, telling himself that he wanted to be certain he made the right choice. Sloane didn't believe that; he insisted that Jack was looking for the one thing he would never find – a woman he could be himself with, a woman who could hear the truth. Jack countered that he had never been the sort of man to wish for the impossible.

The year he turned 30, Jack finally accepted that marriage wasn't in the cards for him. The year he turned 31, he met Darcy.

They met in a convenience store near the apartment complex where they both lived. He'd gone there looking for a Phillips screwdriver to replace the one he'd just broken; she'd gone there for a packet of Virginia Slims. When he failed to find what he was looking for, she offered him the use of her screwdriver.

"That's got to be the tackiest come-on I ever tried," she'd said later that night, as they lay naked together atop the bed in a post-coital daze.

Jack had smiled. "Can't argue with results."

Darcy had coppery red hair and a bold laugh; she was a Texan, an extrovert, the kind of woman described as "brassy" by both admirers and detractors. But she had taste, kindness and – in her strange way – discretion. For her, Jack played the role of an introverted workaholic whose sense of humor was for her alone, and who in public was happy to step back and give her the spotlight. Darcy liked spotlights; better still did she like appreciative audiences. Independent by nature, she was untroubled by his long "business trips." She couldn't have children and worried that this would upset him, but Jack found it something of a relief.

He married her because he found her humor a welcome distraction from work, because he was tired of being alone, and because she actually seemed to be happy. By that time, he was sure that "love" was largely a state of mind, something you could assume at will, if need be. Jack had thought he was being mature and sensible about it.

From the start, they were alien worlds circling each other in an erratic orbit. Their paths, never all that close, diverged slowly and irrevocably – nobody's fault, just the inevitable pull of their personalities. The divorce had been amicable, as such things go, and she insisted on getting together for a meal or drinks every once in a while. Darcy said that otherwise he would crawl into his shell, just like a turtle, and never come out again. Jack's distaste for this assessment was largely based in the likelihood that it was correct.

Ninety percent of the time, when he looked back on it, Jack found it difficult to believe that he had ever married someone like Darcy at all. The other ten percent of the time, he thought that if Darcy would just have given up smoking, they might have made it.

"It's work," he said at last. This much was true. "Talking about my work always bored you when we were married, so I don't see why I should subject you to it now."

"Didn't matter if I didn't like your job, because you always seemed to. Doesn't seem as if you're enjoying it these days, though. Have you ever considered career counseling?"

Jack blinked. "What is – career counseling?"

"You know." Obviously he did not know, or he would not have asked, but Jack knew she would not appreciate being told this. Darcy made a vague circling motion with one well-manicured hand. "Where you sit down with a person and talk about what you really want and what makes you happy, and –" She focused on his face, then shook her head. "Never mind."

Jack suppressed a smile. He'd come here to start an argument, so he might as well begin.

"You resigned your authority to make prescriptions for my life when you moved out." Jack knew how to vein his voice with ice. Darcy tensed so sharply that it was almost like flinching. "I'd prefer it if you kept your 'suggestions' to yourself."

"Well, shit." Darcy stared at him, tossing her napkin on the table. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"You say that as though I had changed." He couldn't meet her eyes. The falseness of the argument troubled him more than Darcy's burgeoning temper. "As though I used to enjoy being dictated to. Is that how you remember our marriage? Endlessly giving me orders while I smiled and said yes or no?"

"Like I'd ever remember you smiling." Jack was surprised that her words actually stung. "You always could turn mean faster than any man I knew, but this is rude even for you." And then, just then, when he should have been able to insult her once more and spur her to storm off, Darcy said, almost pleading, " _What's wrong?_ "

He disliked this duty now more than ever, but he kept his resolve. Jack knew he had to push Darcy as far away as possible, and he had to do it soon.

"If you don't like being reminded that you no longer have a significant place in my life, then maybe you shouldn't pretend that you do."

This finally did it. Darcy grabbed her purse and shoved her chair back, cast-iron scraping against the sidewalk. "You're a son of a bitch when you want to be, you know that, J.D.?"

He didn't answer, just watched her stalk away.

Darcy would probably forgive him for this; she got angry quickly, but got over it quickly too. To do permanent damage to their post-divorce friendship – to ensure that she would never, ever call him again – would take time and effort. Jack already knew he would hate every second of it.

But it had to be done, for Darcy's own good. As a CIA operative, Jack could allow himself to indulge in a friendship with his ex-wife.

The danger was too great now, because he had become a double agent.

**

As he drove into the parking garage, he saw the sign painters at work, illuminating with silver the half-finished symbol that would accompany the words _Credit Dauphine._ Sloane had set these offices up in the previous month, and next week, staffers would move in. Although Jack would not work here, concentrating instead in a compromised aerospace company, he intended to establish a habit of visiting Credit Dauphine often.

A handful of people were already at work, double-checking the computer systems. Some nodded as Jack walked by; nobody smiled. Mentally taking notes for the CIA report he would file later, Jack thought: _All those on-site at this phase of operations are fully aware of the true nature of SD-6, and of its affiliation with the Alliance. The agents to be integrated later are those who believe themselves to be patriots serving the CIA._

He turned a corner and saw Arvin Sloane sitting at his desk, in an office already furnished and immaculate.

 _Those already on-site are – one and all – traitors._

"Jack." Sloane smiled, welcoming and at ease. Jack moved past a ladder, atop which some workmen were installing lights, and stepped into the office. "Good to see you here. Don't tell me we'll have to get you an office of your own."

"Might not be a bad idea." A computer linked directly to the Alliance: Yes, that would be ideal. So ideal that he didn't dare push for it himself; better to let Arvin think it was his suggestion. "I'd thought you were taking the day off. With Emily."

"Do you know, a friend called her last night and asked her to volunteer at Habitat for Humanity today? This morning, off she went. Hardly past dawn." Sloane shook his head, fond but disbelieving. "She'll be worn out tonight, so I want to be home in time to make dinner for her. Until then, might as well get a few things done."

"Such as?" He kept it casual, a chat between friends.

"Actually, Jack, I intended to call you in. I've received some – troubling information."

Jack did not like to consider what Sloane might find troubling. "Then we should talk."

He expected Sloane to push the button that would swivel the louvered walls of his office shut. Instead he said, "Let's take a stroll."

They ended up on the sidewalk just outside Credit Dauphine, traffic noise too close, the dry breeze tugging at the ends of their neckties. They each put on their sunglasses, gazes opaque to each other. "So, whatever this is – it's secret," Jack said. "Even to the Alliance."

"Not so much secret as personal." Sloane's hands were jammed in his pockets, and the tension he'd successfully hidden before was more evident to Jack now. "I don't want Emily to know about this, not unless it's necessary."

"A woman." When they were younger – still friends, more truly than Jack had ever been with anyone else – Jack had never been able to understand how Sloane could risk the love he shared with Emily for one of his rare-but-recurring peccadilloes. "I thought those days were over."

"They are over. I've been faithful to Emily for years." The rasp in Sloane's voice revealed his annoyance. Jack wondered exactly how a man could feel slandered by an accusation of some minor infidelity at the same time he was assembling a massive criminal organization. "This is different. And it concerns you too, slightly."

"I'm listening."

"Do you remember that genetic-sampling program we both participated in? Back in the mid-'70s?"

It took Jack a second to recall; he'd paid it little attention at the time, none in the 16 years since. "Right. That was – embarrassing." He referred not to the hair or fingernail clippings, but the third and most personal sample, acquired by means of a _Penthouse_ , a restroom and a plastic cup, with his coworkers waiting for their turns. "And nothing ever became of it, or so we thought. But you've discovered otherwise?"

"Recently, thanks to some connections within the Alliance, I've learned that the CIA talk about 'genetic sampling' was just a cover for the program's true purpose."

Jack was neither young nor foolish; he understood that the CIA lied to him often, as they did all agents, for various reasons. But something about this was different. His steps on the sidewalk slowed. "True purpose?"

"It relates to the agency's Rambaldi research."

Rambaldi. The mention of the name annoyed Jack; he'd always considered that so much superstitious nonsense and a waste of the agency's time. If Sloane had to betray him, to become someone besides the friend Jack had once known, couldn't he at least have sworn allegiance to something _real_? "Ah."

"Few men could express such cynicism in one syllable, Jack. You have a gift." Sloane did not smile as he made the joke. "It turns out the KGB was conducting Rambaldi research at the same time. And in this one matter, the CIA and the KGB agreed to cooperate. They kept the secret well, but in the era of glasnost – all sort of sins are hatching from the mud."

"You're telling me that the CIA shared our genetic codes with the Soviets?"

"More than that. I'm telling you that the CIA turned over our samples with the express purpose of conceiving a child – one foretold by prophecy."

The prophecy nonsense slipped by Jack, stupid and meaningless. His mind was entirely possessed by the three words c _onceiving a child._

Sloane's jaw was set, his eyes hard with an inward stare that reflected betrayal. "No word on whether they found the child of prophecy they sought, but I have reason to believe – Jack, I think one of the babies born was mine."

Jack could not feel for his friend's violation; he was grappling with his own. "And I – am I –"

"I don't know."

They stood on the corner, a few paces from a bus-stop bench. Jack wanted very badly to sit down, but he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to get up again.

When the world became real to him again, Jack could only focus on Sloane's face. Ever since the day Sloane had first approached him about SD-6, Jack had felt as though his old friend's face was only a mask for a changed, corrupt man. It did not feel that way any longer. Sloane's pain was as vivid to him as his own, and their old friendship stirred – not dead, as Jack had thought, but merely dormant, waiting for this crisis to awaken again. Jack said only, "Tell me what I can do."

"Use your old CIA contacts. Go to the USSR. Given the new 'warmer relations,' you should be able to come up with some pretext. My presence there would be detected and tracked – we know the CIA is watching me. But you're clear, so you should attract no suspicion." Sloane had clearly thought all this out for some time, but in this matter Jack couldn't blame him. "Once you're there, you can follow up with my contacts. Learn what you can about your own entanglement in the project. And if the girl born in April 1975 is who I believe her to be – get her out of there. Bring her home to me."

At last Jack understood. "And then you'll tell Emily."

"Do you think she'd ever accept her?"

They had not spoken this openly since the night after Jacquelyn's funeral in 1982. "You'd have to invent an old infidelity. She wouldn't take that easily. But Emily would be incapable of holding a grudge against a child."

"Hardly even a child, anymore. 15 years old." Sloane sighed and gripped Jack's shoulder. "I would never trust anyone else with this."

Jack nodded. "I'll find her. I promise you that."

Sloane's smile was that of an old man. "You don't have to promise me, Jack. I know what your word means."

The shadows of the memo Jack would write for the CIA flickered, briefly, in his mind.

**

 _Moscow, Russia, USSR_

 

Jack knew that the CIA would soon learn of his visit to the Soviet Union, but that made little difference to him. Let them make what they would of his trip to Moscow Orphanage #47.

The matron who met him in the front office looked as if she had never smiled in her life. "You have only a birthday?"

"April 17, 1975." Jack used every inch of his considerable height to loom over her as he continued. "And -- I have reason to believe that she was one of the children born of Project Prophet Five. Have you heard of it?"

The words Prophet Five still sounded ridiculous to him, but they got the matron's attention in a way he did not expect; she snorted with laughter. "That bunch of rot."

The corner of his mouth lifted – just enough, Jack suspected, for her to realize she was dealing with a kindred spirit. "All the same, the girl's here. Isn't she?"

"A few of them, all dumped here like so much laundry. When that foolishness blew up in their faces – well. The gulag got a few new tenants." Jack did not like her wheezy laugh, but at least she was treating him as a co-conspirator now. "You want to see her? I know the one you're talking about. She's a good girl."

"Later, maybe. Let me see the files for all the other Prophet Five children first."

Jack put the file for that girl – Larisa Derevko – last in the pile. That was probably Sloane's daughter. First he had to know if any of the other children were his. He flipped through page after page; each time, in the space where the father's name should have been typed, was a serial number. By now, Jack had memorized the serial number assigned him by heart. No. No. No. Relief rippled through him as he eliminated them, one after the other.

There were other Prophet Five children – more orphanages, more files, more possibilities that Jack had been made a father without his consent or knowledge. Sloane's intel indicated that the project hadn't been shut down until early 1982; that was a long time for them to work. But he felt deeply, if irrationally, relieved. This evidence corroborated the sense Jack had that, if he'd become a father, he would somehow have known. He hadn't realized he was still capable of superstition.

Finally, he took up the folder for Larisa Derevko. The birth page announced that her mother's name was Irina, and her father –

The serial number wasn't Arvin's. It was Jack's own.

"Well? Do you want to see her or not?" The matron tapped her fingers impatiently on her desk.

"Yes." His mouth was dry. "I do. Thank you."

Jack was sent to wait in the "conservatory" – in truth, a pitifully shabby room with an ancient piano against one wall. The orphanage was a well-appointed one by Soviet standards, but to Jack it now looked more like a prison. He was torn between outrage that any child should be brought up in such a place and terror that the child in question might, in fact, be his own.

But surely it couldn't be true. Serial numbers could be confused; the records might be inaccurate. He'd dealt with government bureaucracy far too long to have any illusions that it was infallible. Mistakes could be made and often were.

Besides – he would _know_.

Superstition again. Jack sighed and ran one hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. He'd talk to her, find out what she knew about her own past, and get a good look at her in the process. If she were a dead ringer for Arvin Sloane – poor girl – then he could get this cleared up. That was how it would work. How it had to work.

He'd never wanted children. He'd never met the woman who would make him want them. If that piece of paper was correct, though it wasn't, the woman who'd given birth to his child – he would never even have met her. The thought revolted Jack, and once again, he rejected it as an impossibility.

His reverie was interrupted by a timid rap on the door, and then the girl walked in.

She was a skinny thing, tall for her age. The black dress she wore was beginning to gray with time and wear, but it was neatly pressed and clean. Her hands were jammed in her pockets, hard enough that the knuckles were outlined by the fabric, as if she were so nervous that she didn't know what else to do with them. She had brown eyes, big lips and a too-sharp jawline that testified to the fact that she was underweight. Her hair was dark and straight, pulled back in a headband that made her look more girlish than her years and unfortunately emphasized her large ears –

His ears.

This was his daughter. Jack knew that now, more surely than he had ever known any other fact in his life. Doubt was instantly replaced by certainty; fear by something even more unsettling, something he could not name.

Larisa took a hesitant step forward, then gave him a crooked little smile – simultaneously hopeful and scared. "I was told –" She spoke in good English, only lightly accented. "—they said you wanted to see me. That you are American."

He found it hard to speak. "Yes. Both. I mean, I'm American, and I'd like to speak with you. My name is Jack Bristow."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bristow. I'm Larisa," she recited, clearly falling back on her basic English lessons for courtesy's sake before she asked what was really on her mind. "They said also that you wanted to talk about the project. Prophet Five."

Astonished, Jack said, "You knew about that?"

She held up her hands at elbow level, the universal sign of denial. "Only a little! Only what I heard."

"You shouldn't let people realize that you know so much."

She lifted her chin. "You think I don't know it's dangerous? I know. But I've waited too long for answers."

Jack had been through debriefings and interrogations with some of the more terrifying customers in espionage, but he had never felt so utterly defenseless before. "I'm sorry. I wish I had more to tell you."

"You came here to ask me questions, didn't you?"

"Not exactly."

Larisa clutched her hands together, as if restraining herself. "Do you know where my mother is?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't."

"She was part of the project." His daughter's eyes filled with tears, though she twisted her mouth in a valiant attempt not to cry. Jack took an involuntary step toward her, stricken, but she shook her head, denying her own sorrow. "I thought – I hoped maybe you would know something. Anything. If you learn about her, will you tell me? Her name was Irina Derevko."

"I'm not here to learn about Prophet Five." That was true, though Jack wondered how much that might have to change in the future. "I came here to look for you."

"Me? Why?"

He could not have lied to her now, and he found he no longer wanted to. "I believe that I'm your father."

Larisa's face did not change expression at first, but her skin went white with shock. Jack wished that he knew what to do – a hug? Too intimate. A handshake? Absurd. A smile? Not serious enough. Nothing was right, and yet everything was right, because he had found her and now she could be safe.

"I see it now," she whispered at last. "I wouldn't have, if you hadn't said – but I do."

"I saw it in you too."

"And you never met my mother." At his surprised look, Larisa explained, "The project. I overheard that much."

"I never even knew you had been born." Jack then told Larisa a truth he hadn't known himself two minutes before: "If I had ever known, I would have come for you. Immediately. Regardless of the consequences."

Maybe it had been the wrong thing to say; maybe there was no right thing to say. In either case, she ducked her head, more intimidated than comforted by his words. Yet Larisa gave him an uncertain, wavering smile; it hurt him to see her trying so hard to make a good impression, as if she had to win him over. "How did you find out about me?"

"A friend of mine learned about Prophet Five." For the first time in a while, it felt right to describe Sloane as a friend. "He sent me here to ask about you. But I didn't know – really know – until I saw you."

Larisa nodded, but she looked even more lost than ever. Jack realized that even the few certainties in this girl's life – the orphanage, her solitude in the world – had been ripped away, and he did not yet know what he could give her in return. She whispered, "What happens now?"

He had no answer for her. It would be up to him to create one.

**

"Jack, you're completely off-book – you had no authorization –"

"Don't talk to me about authorization! The CIA betrayed my trust to conceive a child, and she's spent her youth in a Soviet orphanage. That ends now." The hotel room Jack stood in was almost invisible to him, the vodka he was drinking merely fuel for his anger. A headache rapped at his temples, annoying and insistent. He pictured Devlin's face, in order to make the conversation – and his anger – as immediate as possible over a transatlantic call. "I don't care whom you have to beg, what favors you have to call in, anything. I'm flying out of here in two days with my daughter."

"We can talk about Prophet Five when you return." That, apparently, was as much apology as Jack could expect for what had become of Larisa. "But you want custody of a Soviet citizen? You want to get her out of there for good, based on a paternity claim you can only back up with classified information? That takes time."

"That takes two days. No more. Less, if you can manage it."

"You're in Moscow without authorization, Jack. Since when do you proceed on Arvin Sloane's intel? People are going to ask questions about this."

"I proceed on Sloane's intel because I'm in a position to receive it. A position that puts me at considerable risk, but one that I undertake for the agency's benefit." For the benefit of people who had told him the worst lie imaginable. Jack looked down at the instrument he'd attached to the phone's receiver (the one that would play static into the KGB tap on his hotel phone), then at the ink pen he'd carefully put on the desk (a silencing device that would mute his words from the bugs in his room). The many layers of danger that surrounded him were so constant that he rarely noticed them, but he did now. "If I had failed to follow up on the intel, I'd have endangered my cover. In short, Devlin, I'm not the one who has to answer questions here."

Devlin sighed; Jack could hear genuine regret. Until Jack had learned about Prophet Five, he'd considered them friends. "You're really ready for this? To be a father to a teenage girl? I've been doing it for years, with three of them, no less, and trust me, it's not as easy as it looks."

"It doesn't look easy."

"Still."

"I don't know," Jack confessed, hating that an admission of vulnerability was necessary for his objective. "But I have to be ready. The only alternative is leaving her behind. I won't do that."

Silence. Devlin might have been thinking of ways to help Jack out – but it was equally as likely that he was preparing to deny the CIA's help.

In that instant, Jack realized that he would do anything – anything – to bring Larisa home with him. If that meant giving up CIA secrets to the KGB or GRU, he would do it. He'd spent the previous twenty years of his life convinced that he would never commit treason; now he knew precisely what he could tell, and to whom he could tell it, as surely as though he'd plotted it out for months.

Nearly every agent past a certain level of seniority had a certain history of off-book activity; espionage was a dirty business, and anybody who didn't get his hands soiled wasn't really in the game. The CIA (and, no doubt, the KGB and every other official agency out there) condoned a certain level of such activity because it allowed agents to get things done without making their governments responsible. Jack's own track record of rule-bending was impressive even by these lax standards. But he had always been a loyal agent of the CIA.

No longer. The loss of the duty that had for so long defined him would have hollowed him out, if the thought of his daughter hadn't been enough to fill him up a thousand times over. His loyalty to her was the only one that mattered now – the only loyalty that would ever matter, from this day on.

Devlin finally said, "Let me make some calls."

"You do that." Jack hung up. He no longer had faith in Devlin, but he understood enough to know that he would indeed be able to take Larisa home.

**

Although Jack had been willing to give Darcy in the house in the divorce settlement, she hadn't wanted it, insisting that a new beachfront condo was more to her liking. He had paid for this without complaint and remained where he was. During his two years alone, he'd done relatively little to the place – so much so that all his clothes still hung on one side of the master bedroom's closet, as though Darcy's colorful things might return to their half at any moment, fluttering in like a flock of unruly butterflies.

He felt as though he hadn't really seen the place in years – not until Larisa stood in the living room, clutching her one shabby suitcase and staring. Jack found himself second-guessing the couch, the paint, the wall-to-wall, everything. "There's a room that we can get ready for you," he explained, absurdly feeling guilty for not having it prepared already. "My ex-wife used it as a kind of home office; there's nothing in there now but boxes. Tomorrow we can buy you some furniture. Whatever you want. For tonight you should take my room."

"Where will you sleep?"

"The couch is fine. It’s comfortable." Jack had become well-acquainted with it during the final months of his marriage to Darcy.

Larisa didn't let go of her suitcase. She looked – not frightened, exactly, but unsure.

That makes two of us, Jack thought, but letting her see that seemed like a bad idea. "Do you like American food? Have you ever had – pizza, or hamburgers, anything like that?" She shook her head, and he realized too late that he had made her feel ignorant. Quickly he said, "We'll try pizza."

Larisa claimed she enjoyed the pizza, but the only time she smiled was in relief when Jack made it clear that the cheese was meant to be messy. Conversation was still awkward – not quite as bad as it had been on the plane, when a drunken businessman next to Larisa kept telling off-color jokes, but still difficult. Jack had spent a lifetime quickly learning how to ingratiate himself with all different kinds of people, but apparently those skills were useless when it came to his daughter. They fumbled their way through the evening, equally tongue-tied, and he felt a certain guilty relief when she pleaded exhaustion and went to bed.

They said their good-nights with him standing in the doorway; though Larisa was a teenager and a tall one at that, she looked so small to him, lying in the very center of his king-sized bed.

That didn't go as badly as it could have, he told himself. No, it hadn't been the greatest father-daughter evening of all time – or anything close – but at least none of the disasters he'd imagined had come to pass. If tomorrow went as well, he'd count it as a win.

Though his mind was racing, Jack felt sleep tugging at him the moment he turned off the lamp and stretched out on the sofa. Jet lag induced the most perfect sleep, when you could afford to give into it: deep and welcoming, a return to the womb. Jack smiled a little at the sheer physical pleasure of it, but more from the knowledge that Larisa was safe and warm only a few feet away. If his daughter was safe, then everything else – a relationship, understanding, the rest – that could come later.

 _My daughter._ The words didn't seem so strange now. They repeated quietly in Jack's mind, a kind of lullaby.

He didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until he awoke, instantly alert. An unexpected noise – but what? Jack sat up, preparing for action, before he heard it again and recognized it for what it was.

Larisa was crying.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Jack blinked the sleep from his eyes as he walked toward the bedroom door. The fog of exhaustion dissipated in seconds, blown away by the sound of Larisa's racking sobs. It cut through him; he hadn't known anything had the power to make him feel so humbled and weak.

His fist raised to knock, Jack hesitated. What if she didn't want him to come to her? What if she was crying because she hated it here – even because she feared him? Even the scant relief he'd felt earlier in the evening mocked him now; it wasn't a night to make a young girl feel at home, or loved. Not a night to "count as a win."

He lowered his hand and stood there for a few moments. She continued to cry, and the sound of it tore at Jack, drawing fresh blood again and again, until finally he rapped on the door. "Larisa? Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry!" She sounded terrified. "I didn't mean to – I won't –"

Jack opened the door. In the darkness he could just make out the tear-streaked oval of her face. Larisa was scared, and at least some of that fear was of him, the stranger who had dragged her halfway around the world. He wished that he knew what to say, how to be what she needed. "It's okay," he said quietly.

She gulped in a breath, still upset, but at least not petrified with fear of him any longer. "I woke you up."

"That doesn't matter." Jack felt sure that her misery could only be his fault. "I guess – the orphanage, that was your home. Everything you'd ever known. I should have given you more time to – say goodbye, or –"

"It's not that. I hated it there." Larisa wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, the gesture almost fierce. He believed her. "I know you meant to help, bringing me here with you. This house – it's so beautiful, but –"

Her words choked off. Jack asked, "What is it, sweetheart?"

He'd never called anyone that in his life.

Larisa blurted out, "I want my mother."

Then, either ashamed or overcome, she burst into tears again. Jack wanted desperately to comfort her, to embrace her – to do anything that would make this better. But he was afraid of frightening her more; though he was her father, he was also a strange man in a new country, who had just invited himself into her bedroom. It was vile to think that the world was such a place that he had to consider these things before trying to hold his weeping daughter.

Larisa cried herself out in front of him, as he powerlessly stood and watched. It took a very long time.

When she finally seemed to be quieting, Jack gave her his handkerchief and let her set herself to rights. "I'm sorry she's not here," he said. "Your mother. It's only natural that a young woman your age would want to know –"

"You don't understand." Larisa shook her head. "I wasn't always at the orphanage. I lived with Mama until I was six years old."

Jack wondered why he was so deeply shocked. "What happened?"

"Mama wasn't there when I came home from school one day. She was always there. Always. I didn't know what to do, so – I waited. It got dark, and I was all alone." Larisa's voice took on a distant, sing-song quality; Jack realized that the memories they were reliving now were ones that she'd pored over, again and again, during all the years since. "I ate what we had in the house. I didn't go to school the next morning, because I wanted to be there when she got back."

He murmured, "But she didn't return. Did she?"

Larisa blinked back the last of her tears. "A week later, my Aunt Katya found me. I was out of food – I hadn't eaten, I was sick. She took me to the doctors just to make me better, but then they took me away from my aunt. I didn't care, because I thought my mother would come for me soon. She never did. And I never saw my aunt again, either. Maybe she left me, but – I think something happened to her. I think the KGB got rid of her. Then I had no one."

"I'm sorry."

"And if my mother goes to the orphanage now – Dad, if she ever tries to find me, I won't be there. She'll never know what happened to me. I'll never know anything at all."

 _Dad._ The sound of it was like a shaft of sunlight, illuminating a darkness Jack had never realized was there. But he remained focused on Larisa's problem.

It was surpassingly unlikely that any woman would leave her child in an orphanage for nine years if she were alive and capable of retrieving her. That meant that Irina Derevko was either long dead or completely worthless. Given that the evident grief their daughter felt, Jack thought it was more likely that Irina was dead.

Larisa's warmth and hopefulness – those weren't qualities she would have learned in a Soviet orphanage. That upbringing alone couldn't explain her shine. For part of her life, this girl had been deeply loved.

Slowly, he said, "I can't promise to find her. Nobody could promise you that. What I know about Prophet Five is limited, and it's difficult for me to enter the Soviet Union."

Larisa nodded, slowly understanding. "But – you'll look for her?"

"Yes. I'll look."

"Thank you," she whispered. He wished once again that he could hug her, but they were still strangers, and this place was not her home. The hollowness in her eyes revealed how little comfort his promise had given; Larisa had spent too many years in the company of disappointed hopes. Jack tried to smile at her reassuringly before went back to the sofa for a long, restless night.

 

**

As Jack pulled out his credit card in the furniture store to buy Larisa the canopy bed she'd chosen after much deliberation, he saw Arvin Sloane walk through the door. He was surprised, but not shocked; when he'd called in this morning, he'd left word where he would be. SD-6 preferred to track its agents at all times of the day and night.

Sloane coming himself, though – that was unusual.

Larisa didn't notice the store's new customer; she was busy in another corner of the shop, staring at throw pillows. Coming as it did after a lifetime of deprivation, the sheer excess of American consumerism seemed to bewilder her. Jack was willing to buy her whatever she wanted – anything and everything, no matter how extravagant – but the multiplicity of choices in fabrics and styles and colors seemed to confuse her more than anything else.

"She's beautiful," Sloane said. He was staring at Larisa raptly. "And yes – she is yours. There's no mistaking the resemblance."

"I'm sorry," Jack said, not as apology but as sympathy. He, who had never wanted children, had been given this wonderful daughter; Sloane, who had tried desperately for a child with Emily and had even tragically lost a baby girl, was once again denied. It was injustice, and Jack could see that clearly, even if he was glad for it.

Sloane nodded, acknowledging his old grief without speaking of it. "Forgive me for intruding. But I admit, I was curious. And you come to the house so seldom these days; I knew I couldn't simply wait for an introduction."

Jack had begun begging off at dinners at the Sloane household about two years ago, roughly the time he'd first sensed how markedly Sloane had changed. "Invite us again sometime soon. The more people Larisa gets to know in this country, the better." He wished he had someone besides the Sloanes to introduce her to. Perhaps this was the time for a question that had troubled Jack since Moscow. "Why did you think she was yours?"

"Certain suggestions in the intel."

That was no answer at all. "Do you think you might have another child through Prophet Five? I double-checked all the files I could, but there could be more."

"It's possible, of course. Yet I doubt it." Sloane sighed and relented, surrendering a bit no information. "The information I received connected me to Irina Derevko, and said that Derevko had given birth to a daughter in April 1975. The inference I made afterward is my own responsibility."

Why would Irina Derevko have been "connected" to Arvin Sloane? Jack realized that they must have tried conceiving a Derevko child with Sloane's sample as well; only chance made him Larisa's father.

Disquieted, Jack turned toward his daughter, eager to see her choosing something, wanting something, so that he could get it for her. However, she was no longer looking at the throw pillows, but at a group of teenaged girls halfway across the store, laughing as they all critiqued each other's taste. They wore blue jeans and bright-colored sweaters, and their hair was crimped and curled into various exaggerated styles. To Jack's eyes, Larisa was more beautiful by far with her straight hair and simple dress – but he could tell by the slump of her shoulders that she didn't agree.

She's different, Jack realized. Her differences were understandable, and probably for the better, but he remembered his own adolescence well enough to recall just how terrible it felt, the knowledge that you didn't fit in.

"I have to return to the Soviet Union," Jack said. "To clear up some custody issues."

"Take all the time you want, Jack." Sloane either had not noticed Larisa's shyness, or he simply didn't care. His smile remained luminous and unearthly, and all for her. "Nothing is more important than that girl's well-being."

Jack decided it didn't matter that much why Sloane agreed with him about that truth, as long as he agreed.

**

He made arrangements to return to Moscow in two days. That gave him time to assemble the bed, though this did little to make Larisa feel at home. She was disconcerted by sleeping in a room alone – it had never happened to her before in her life – and Jack ended up leaving most of the house's lights on all night in an attempt to comfort her. Although she said nothing about it, Jack noticed that she had not yet unpacked her few things from her suitcase. It wounded him to realize that she was still scared that he'd send her back, cast her out, as though she were a stranger and not his only child.

She remained so quiet, so frightened and so isolated. How could he leave her alone for a week?

"I'm old enough to take care of myself," Larisa promised. If any other teenager were making the argument, it would be the cover story for a big party; Jack suspected that Larisa almost welcomed the idea of time alone, with no one to judge her. "I can cook, and clean, and you have lots of books to read."

"You don't have to clean house."

"I can, though. I wouldn't mind." It was as if she thought she had to earn her keep. Jack could not find the words to tell her that she was only thing in this house that mattered.

Late at night on the second day, only 17 hours before he was due to depart LAX for the Soviet Union, Jack finally broke down and made his phone call of last resort. "Darcy. Hello. It's me."

"This is quicker than you usually apologize, J.D." Darcy sounded more amused than offended – but the offense was definitely still there. "Going soft in your old age? I hear that happens to guys."

"That's not why I called. I did mean to – I mean, I do want to apologize. I'm sorry. I was out of line at the café."

Darcy was not appeased. "You didn't call to say sorry? The only part of that I find surprising is that you called at all, then."

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his temples; the scotch he'd poured for himself beforehand was at hand, waiting to soothe him as soon as this conversation was over. "I need a favor."

"You have got to be kidding me. You only thought to apologize once you needed something? That's class for you." She was spitting mad now, and likely to hang up unless he talked fast.

So Jack blurted out the truth, the quickest way he could: "I have a daughter."

Silence. Finally, Darcy said, "Did I hear you right?"

"A daughter. I have a daughter." He leaned back against the headboard of his bed, crossing his legs as he readied himself to tell the cover story he'd devised. Tense and uncomfortable, he wished he'd taken the time to remove his shoes first. "Years ago – before we ever met – I went to the Soviet Union on business."

"Since when do you do business with the Russians?"

"It's perfectly legal, and it always was, and that's _beside the point_ , Darcy, so if you could just listen –" She was silent. Jack took a deep breath before he continued. "Anyway, there was a woman in Moscow. We had an affair, brief – it had to be brief, I wasn't there long – and we parted. I never heard from her again, and I never expected to. But I found out a week ago that she gave birth to my daughter. She's gone missing, and so my daughter is with me now."

For once, Darcy appeared to be at a loss for words. At last she said, "Holy shit."

"My sentiments exactly." She hadn't hung up yet; that had to count as a good sign. "Her name is Larisa, and she's 15 years old. I have to return to the USSR to try and find out what's become of her mother." He lowered his voice, so that Larisa wouldn't overhear the next. "I suspect she's dead, but I have to know for sure. For Larisa's sake."

"Wait, wait, wait. This is still sinking in." Darcy sounded even more confused than he felt. "A little girl? You?"

"Not so little anymore."

"You just found this out? And you brought her to live with you, just like that?"

"She's my daughter. How could I leave her behind?"

"There's men who would."

"I'm not one of them. And I think you know that." Jack felt as though the groundwork for the favor was laid – at least, as well as it ever would be. "As I told you, I have to go to the USSR, and my plane leaves tomorrow. While I'm gone – I was hoping you could come by. Look in on Larisa. Maybe, ah, take her shopping."

" _What?_ "

Jack's self-control snapped. "I don't know what to do for her! She's not like the other kids, and she feels awkward, and I see her hiding in the house – she doesn't even go out on the lawn, not if she can help it. This beautiful girl hides from other people because she's afraid, and she's different, and I want to change everything for her. But I can't, and I don't know how to try. I'm a stranger to her, Darcy, and she's a stranger to me. All I know is that she'd feel better if she – fit in a little." His throat had tightened, and Jack hoped like hell that he wasn't about to start crying on the phone to Darcy. Crying on the phone to ex-wives was generally bad policy.

But Darcy filled the silence, her voice as gentle as he'd ever heard it. "Wouldn't be any trouble for me to look in on her. Besides, a girl that age wants some clothes. I sure do remember it myself."

"Darcy –"

"And I've been meaning to go to the mall anyway," she said firmly. If Darcy had been standing in front of Jack at that moment, he might have hugged her.

So, the next morning, as he finished his packing, Jack explained the situation to Larisa, reviewing the cover story he'd invented. Larisa recognized the need to lie – and kept her details straight from the first, which made him feel strangely proud – but she didn't immediately understand Darcy's role in Jack's life.

"We're still friends, Darcy and I. And she can help you buy whatever you need. I've left my credit card on the kitchen table; Darcy will show you how to use it." Under his breath, he muttered, "And how."

Larisa shifted from foot to foot. "Is she nice?"

"Yes." Jack considered this. "But loud."

A smile tugged at his daughter's lips, though she tried to hide it from him. "I can't see you with a loud wife."

Jack snapped the suitcase shut. "As it turned out, neither could I."

It was the first time he ever made Larisa laugh. The glow of it didn't leave him until long after the plane had taken flight.

**

Jack realized that Irina Derevko was KGB within the first hour of his search through the limited Prophet Five files he'd been able to access. He saw no notations to that effect, but in some ways, that was exactly the point. Any other citizen would have full records. KGB agents left no trail.

Save for the birth of Larisa, there was almost no evidence that Irina Derevko had ever existed.

Finally, after a small bribe made to a double agent in the Kremlin, Jack was able to get Derevko's KGB personnel file. He opened it in his hotel room, late at night, and stared at the photograph that revealed the mother of his child.

She was beautiful. Dark, thick hair that gleamed; wide-set eyes that shone with intelligence and mischief; a broad mouth and strong jaw that suggested a powerful character to match. He could see Larisa in her, far more strongly than he saw himself, Jack held the picture in his hands for several minutes, trying to imagine her voice, her walk and her personality. He couldn't. In some ways, Irina was more mysterious to him now that he had seen her than she had been as an abstraction.

He leaned back in his chair and let the snapshot fall. Even in a photograph, Irina Derevko's stare was formidable, and Jack was tired.

A glance at his watch revealed that it was about 1 p.m. in Los Angeles. Jack did the math that told him it was nearly midnight in Moscow, then. Normally he changed his watch to fit whatever time zone he happened to be in at the moment – several times a week – but this trip, he had not. He liked thinking of it as 1 p.m. and imagining what Larisa might be doing. Maybe Darcy was spending time with her today, treating her to lunch at one of the absurdly expensive bistros she enjoyed. Wherever she was, he hoped his daughter was happy.

It occurred to him then that he missed her. Already, he felt incomplete when Larisa wasn't near.

With new dedication, Jack dived back into the records. His daughter wanted her mother, and what she wanted, he would find for her.

It was a small notation in the corner of one dog-eared page that finally provided the necessary clue: Irina had received a minor reprimand in late 1981 for seeking medical treatment at an unauthorized facility. Her record ended with her disappearance shortly thereafter. Jack suspected that the KGB had never made any connection, but he had a hunch.

The next day, he went to that hospital and, through still more bribery, was allowed into a back room to search through dusty file cabinets that had probably remained undisturbed for nine years. The only light was filtered through a window that had been painted over, a dull muted gray, like the sky before snow. Motes of dust swirled lazily in the air around him as he sorted through file after file, page after page, Cyrillic characters beginning to blur in front of his eyes.

DEREVKO – no, that file belonged to someone named "Yekaterina." Then he remembered that this was the name of one of Irina's sisters, in fact the full name of "Aunt Katya." Despite his best efforts, Jack hadn't been able to track either of these sisters down either. Either this was an incredible coincidence, or no coincidence at all.

The first notation for treatment was on the day after the reprimand had been given to Irina. Was it possible that both sisters had visited doctors in the same week? Of course. But was it more likely that Irina had bribed the doctors to treat her under another name?

Jack suddenly had a flash of Irina doing just that; it seemed to him that he could see her sure, steady smile. If she had been a strong woman – one who would do whatever she damn well pleased, and to hell with the consequences – yes, she would have done this. In that moment Jack knew, as surely as if Irina had whispered the words into his ear, that this record did not belong to her sister, but to her.

He began reading and discovered that, in the winter of 1981, Irina Derevko had learned she was pregnant with her second child.

Had she gone for a secret abortion? Perhaps died afterward? Jack rejected the possibility as soon as it came to him. Abortion was not frowned-upon in the Soviet Union; had Irina reported this to her superiors, they'd easily have allowed her the time to recover from the procedure, and she would have been praised for handling the matter correctly. Unless –

Prophet Five had still been active.

Irina Derevko had conceived another child through the program.

THAT was the child Arvin Sloane had sought, maybe even the one he had fathered, explaining the intel – and, perhaps, one whose destiny was foretold in the Rambaldi prophecies.

And Irina had known of the Rambaldi link, feared it, and run. The KGB would have claimed this second baby immediately, perhaps, and this was something no mother would bear if she could help it. She had left behind one child to save another. After only a week of fatherhood, Jack already realized that this was the cruelest choice any human being could ever be called upon to make.

Even then, probably she had believed that her sister, Katya, would be the one to raise Larisa. She wouldn't have left her daughter behind without that faith, not even to save the child inside her.

Supposition and guesswork – yet Jack was as certain of this as if he had made the decisions himself.

The next steps would be easy. Jack now knew, as the KGB did not, to look for a woman who had given birth in the summertime of 1982. He knew that finding her sister Katya would be the first and more important step in finding Irina Derevko. With the resources of either SD-6 or the CIA at his disposal, Jack could probably shake out a list of candidates within months. But doing so would mean revealing all of this to Rambaldi followers either within or without the government – in effect, exposing Irina and her son or daughter to all the danger that Irina had fled to escape. Larisa's mother had made a terrible sacrifice; exposing her would render her sacrifice meaningless. Everything their daughter had been through would've been for nothing.

It was as though he could feel Irina's desperation, reaching out to him past years and distance, through the connection they shared with Larisa. She had one request of the father of her child – her older child – _Help us hide._

He ripped the pages out of her file and crumpled them into his coat pocket. He'd burn them later.

**

"And you're certain Derevko's dead?" Arvin studied him from across his desk. The Credit Dauphine offices were nearly complete by now; instead of hammers or drilling, Jack could hear only a vacuum running in the distance.

"I have no proof," Jack said. "But I'm satisfied. I'll tell Larisa only that she's missing, and that I couldn't find her." This was not the whole truth, but it was as much as Sloane needed to know. Jack's investigation into what happened to Irina would be done on his own, taking months or even years longer than it would otherwise – but it would remain secret, and that was what mattered most.

"No idea whatsoever how she died?"

"None." It disturbed him to hide Arvin's own child from him – he knew how vicious a lie that was, better than anyone. Then again, he didn't have any form of proof that Arvin was the father. Furthermore, this was the one loyalty Jack could offer to Irina Derevko, and he was determined to give it to her.

His loyalty to Arvin could be demonstrated in other ways.

"I'm sorry it didn't go better," Arvin finally said. "Go home. See your daughter."

"One thing –"

"Yes?"

"We have to talk."

Arvin studied Jack for a few seconds. "Very well."

"Let's take another walk."

As they strolled down the sidewalk, breathing in air thick with exhaust fumes, Jack told Arvin that he was a double agent for the CIA.

"I doubted you. I trusted the agency. I was a fool. They lied to me – hid Larisa from me –" Jack swallowed his anger. It would do no good. "I realize that I've disappointed you. That you would be within your rights to call the Alliance right now and have me eliminated. But if you let me, I can prove to you that I've learned the error of my ways."

Arvin didn't say a word through the entire explanation. It seemed like a very long time before he finally spoke. "To tell the truth, I always thought you came to us too easily. I flattered myself that it was our friendship."

"If I didn't believe in our friendship, I wouldn't be telling you this now."

Would Arvin have him killed, regardless? Jack doubted it, but he couldn't be positive. All he knew was that he would not walk one more step, speak one more word, at the orders of the CIA. They had betrayed him as nobody had ever betrayed him, not Sloane, not anyone. There were crimes too deep to forgive, and harming his daughter was the first and greatest of these.

Jack knew also that Larisa might play a role in Rambaldi's prophecies. If it came to it, she would need someone on her side – someone who understood their labyrinthine world and strange beliefs. He could not be that person for his daughter; Arvin Sloane could. If the price of Larisa's safety was the restoration of his friendship with Arvin – it wasn't a very high price to pay.

After they had strolled a few more paces, Arvin said, "You'll have to begin operating as a triple agent. I realize it's risky, but at this point, we have no other option. After you've given us some intel, I'll take it to the Alliance, claim it was our plan all along. They'll be angry that they weren't consulted – but they'll see the advantages."

"Understood." Relief washed over him like rain. "Arvin – thank you."

"We'll get through this."

They smiled at one another. Jack knew that, on some levels, Arvin's dedication was given to Larisa and not to him, but in his opinion, that was just as it should be.

**

Next he drove to the boardwalk that Darcy had named on his answering machine; it was alive with activity, filled with teenagers and college students, artists and shoppers and tourists. Jack walked past booths selling colorful T-shirts, candles and incense, slightly bemused by the tumult of it all. Although he could tell that this was just the kind of place Darcy would find amusing – she probably bought all her Bohemian jewelry here – he worried about Larisa. The crowds would be overwhelming for her, and there would be more giggling girls to make her feel ill-at-ease – like those girls over there –

\--and then he saw that Larisa was standing in the middle of them.

She was transformed. Instead of her plain clothes from the Moscow orphanage, she wore those stretchy black pants that made Jack think of trapeze artists and a brilliant green cowl-necked sweater. Her hair had been cut and permed into a frizzy bob, like the ones the other girls wore. Lipstick was on her mouth, mascara on her eyelashes, though fortunately she'd used a lighter touch than Darcy usually did. And Larisa was laughing as she played a video game, apparently doing well, while the others around her shouted suggestions and encouragement.

His daughter was -- happy. And she no longer looked like a little girl, but like a young woman. Jack felt as if he had only just caught the last of her childhood, and knew an absurdly overwhelming gratitude that he'd been able to see it, that it wasn't one of the countless moments lost to them forever.

A gentle hand closed around his forearm. "We did some damage on that credit card of yours," Darcy said. "I'm warning you now."

"Money well spent." Jack turned toward her slowly, unwilling to let Larisa out of his sight. "It went okay. I can see that."

"J.D., she's precious. Just a sweet, sweet girl, and smart as a whip, to boot. So poised! Makes me look back at my own teenage self and think what a sulky lump I was."

"I doubt that." The chivalry was completely sincere. At the moment, when Jack looked at Darcy, he saw a miracle worker. She had made Larisa happy, and if she'd asked him for riches or treason or a soft-shoe dance, he would have obliged.

Darcy smiled up at him, a softer smile he'd almost forgotten she possessed. "You must be so overwhelmed. Having found her."

"I am. But – grateful." It felt as though something so profound deserved more words, but Jack couldn't think of the right ones.

"Well, turns out she loves pasta and Mexican food, but Thai didn't go over so well. We went to the movies and saw 'Pretty Woman' –"

"What's that about?"

"A hooker who finds true love."

"Darcy!" As if any daughter of his should be taken to a movie about a prostitute.

Characteristically, Darcy ignored his protest. "She wants to get her ears pierced, but I told her she'd have to run that one by you. And just in case you were worried – she thinks you hung the moon." Her bright eyes were twinkling. "I didn't tell her any different."

Jack pressed Darcy's hands between his, then kissed her – the first real kiss they'd shared since long before their marriage ended. When their lips parted, he simply said, "Thank you."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Kissing like that is thanks enough."

"I owe you."

"Not for this. It was my pleasure, and I mean it." Darcy patted him on the shoulder. "But let's have brunch back at the house sometime, hmm? The three of us. With you acting like a normal person instead of a hard-nosed jackass."

"I'll try."

They smiled at each other, and then Darcy turned away from him to go to Larisa's side. The game had apparently just ended, and Larisa was pointing at the screen until Darcy hugged her from behind. Their easy embrace heartened Jack – and then Larisa looked over Darcy's shoulder and recognized him. In her eyes he saw relief and comfort; the thought that he could represent these things to his daughter, in some small measure, humbled and moved him.

After Darcy had gone, they walked out along the boardwalk together, saying little. Jack realized that Larisa knew they would have to be alone before he could discuss her mother in any way; the maturity of her discretion surprised him almost as much as it pleased him.

Then again, with a CIA agent and a KGB agent for parents, maybe it was in her blood.

"I liked Darcy," Larisa said at last. "You're right -- she is loud. But she's a good person. She explained all kinds of things."

"I'm glad you two got along."

"Can she come over sometimes?"

"Certainly." The answering smile on Larisa's face made Jack wonder if maybe, now that he had a family – well, perhaps he could start by asking Darcy to quit smoking again.

They left the boardwalk and strolled along a sidewalk that took them slightly farther from the shore. Jack could still see the ocean as he looked over at his daughter, but the sound of the crowds and the waves was far away now.

Larisa whispered, "What did you learn?"

"Very little. I didn't find your mother. I don't know if she's alive or dead. But – I think she left for a good reason."

"A good reason?" Her eyes filled with tears so quickly that Jack almost stumbled on the sidewalk in his dismay. "For leaving me?"

"I believe that she thought you would be with your aunt. Hear me out." And – though he certainly had not meant to do it – he told Larisa most of the truth, stressing the need for secrecy, leaving out only the role he suspected Arvin Sloane to play. Larisa listened without a word, then walked beside him, utterly silent, for so long that he began to worry.

But at last she said, "A little brother or sister. Somewhere out there."

"Yes. If they're still alive." Jack had considerable doubts on this score, but after finding Larisa, he wasn't inclined to consider anything impossible. He would keep looking, when and how he could, and eventually, he'd find answers – or answers would find him. What if Irina Derevko and her second child came knocking on his door one day? Stranger things had happened.

"She had to take care of them, so she couldn't take care of me. I guess I wasn't as important."

"If she could have come for you, she would."

"How can you know that? You never even met her."

"No," Jack admitted. "But I know that she was – smart, and strong. Beautiful. And that she loved you."

"How did you learn all this about her? Was it in her files?" The joke was bitter, the anger of an adult instead of the trust of a child. He did not like the brittle smile on her face. She'd hidden the desperate love of her mother he'd glimpsed on Larisa's first night in America so well that anyone else would never have guessed it ever existed.

But that love was true, whether Larisa was ready to admit it or not. The best thing Jack could do for her now was preserve it.

"I saw your mother's photograph. But – mostly, I see her in you."

Larisa's smile softened, became real. Jack thought simply that his daughter was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

 

END PART THREE


	4. Red

_Moscow, Russia, USSR  
August 1974_

 

"Long live the Great August Socialist Revolution! Long live the solidarity and friendship of the socialist nations! Long live the great banner of Marx and Lenin! The proletariat and the peace-loving people of the world, unite!"

Applause and cheering filled Red Square, the Soviet flags burning brilliant with the glow of the late afternoon sun. Irina had never been one to be swept up in pomp and pageantry, but at moments like this, with the long lines of tanks arranged upon the road like pillars, the troops standing in perfect formation before her like chessmen upon a board -- she couldn't resist a certain satisfaction. Although it was a display of brute force, in its own crude way it was aesthetically pleasing.

Red flags against blue sky. White birds in a perfect V overhead. Summertime's warmth and autumn's breeze. Yes, whatever else this was, it was beautiful. The spectacle almost made up for having to listen.

"In the past fifty-seven years, the Soviet people have traveled a hard road. The imperialists tried by every means to destroy the world's first socialist republic. The enemies of the Soviet Union appeared for a time to be stronger. But the courageous Soviet people, led by their glorious Communist Party, thoroughly smashed the attacks of the aggressors." The crowd roared its approval again.

Scarlet and gold confetti blew toward them in the breeze, and Irina smiled as some of it caught in her hair. She glanced over at one sister, Elena, who was pretending that she didn't have bits of confetti upon her cheek – and then at the other, Katya, whose lips were pursed in a smile as though she were about to kiss the very air they breathed.

To the casual observer, Irina suspected they seemed much alike: dark-haired sisters, arrayed in severe gray-green uniforms, all standing at perfect attention. The only obvious difference was that Irina stood a head taller than her older sisters, who had inherited only their mother's height. Nobody who did not know them well – and few people did – could guess how much deeper the divisions between them went.

They all served in the GRU together, and each sister in her own way was considered an up-and-comer. Beyond that, they were special, even sacred to some, because of the links between their family and Rambaldi. Some called the three Derevko sisters the future of the Soviet Union itself.

Unlike Elena – and, sometimes, unlike even Katya – Irina considered such talk grandiose. Certainly, in the past year, they had all come to consider it an uncomfortable subject. But it didn't much matter if Irina believed in Rambaldi's mysticism herself, as long as others believed it – and treated the Derevkos accordingly.

"In the past sixty years, we have experienced two world wars. After the First World War, the Great October Socialist Revolution took place in Russia. And after the Second World War, the Great August Revolution took place across the entire world!" The cheering was fevered now, almost wild. Sometimes Irina almost wished that she could share the blindness of the mob, so that she could join in that mad, mindless joy. "After the defeat of the imperialist Nazis, the world's citizens joined the great socialist movement of our age! One by one, the nations joined us: Germany! France! Italy! Great Britain! All joined us as one under the banner of socialism and human freedom!"

Katya murmured, "And only forty million more people had to die."

"Hush before I have to arrest you." Elena never took her eyes from the cheering crowds.

Irina was a student of history, but only inasmuch as it could serve her purposes in the here and now. Stalin's decision to crush the weakened Allies after the Second World War was neither moral nor immoral to her; it was merely the reason that the representatives of so many nations were here to celebrate the Glorious August Revolution and pay the tribute the USSR was due.

The fact that some of those nations had not turned to socialism – that they were here, weakened and supposedly friendly, but secretly up to any number of schemes of their own – was the reason she had a job to do.

"In the end, the socialist system will completely replace the capitalist system. This is an objective law, independent of human will. No matter how hard the reactionaries try to prevent the advance of the wheel of history, revolution will take place sooner or later – and will surely triumph!"

As the crowd applauded again, Irina studied the faces of the delegates from the few non-socialist nations that still held some minimal power in the world: Canada, Australia, the United States. As one, their faces were bland and respectful –

\-- save for a lone tall man in the Canadian delegation who had the audacity to look, well -- uninterested.

"'To lift a rock, merely to crush one's own foot' is a Chinese saying to describe the action of fools. The reactionaries of every country are just such fools. Their persecution of the revolutionary people will only end in rousing the people to broader and fiercer revolution!"

Irina watched the tall man as he began to clap with the others – but he tapped his hands together only twice before letting them fall. It wasn't insolence; he made no show of his disapproval. He was simply, genuinely bored.

Despite herself, Irina wanted to smile at him. She always approved of bad manners.

**

After the afternoon parades, they had a few hours before the grand ball. As the banquet was purely for military brass, the Derevko sisters ate in their rooms as they prepared for the night.

"Did you guzzle every bit of juice for yourself?" Katya tossed a napkin in Elena's direction. "Greedy sow."

"I wanted it," Elena said evenly. She was now helping herself to toasted bread as she sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed in her bra and slip. Irina brushed out her sister's coal-dark hair, preparing to braid it up into an elaborate coil at the nape of Elena's neck. "Very badly, as a matter of fact. I think it might be a craving."

Irina shared a glance with Katya. Elena was certainly not pregnant; she'd been a witch with her last cycle, just two weeks ago, and her husband was still not back from Leningrad. Although Irina wouldn't put it past Elena to be unfaithful, she didn't think her sister was skilled enough to conduct an affair without leaving any clues that the other members of her family would detect. So why was Elena putting on airs? For the Politburo, already impatient for proof that the Chosen One would soon arrive, her act might be useful. But what was the point of pretense with her sisters?

While she continued brushing Elena's hair, Irina took the opportunity to study her sister's face. Instead of determination or anger – her two most common moods – Elena had an uncertain smile on her lips.

She truly hopes, Irina realized. Though there is no reason for hope. Elena is becoming desperate.

Katya, recognizing the same thing, gave Irina a disbelieving grin before toweling dry her own short locks. Irina could not smile. The baby wasn't supposed to be due until 1975, according to these so-called prophecies, so there was plenty of time yet. Yet Elena had already become worried, to the point of irrationality, and Irina wasn't sure she could blame her.

If the child didn't appear, the Kremlin might decide that the Derevkos weren't so important, that the prophecies weren't true, and then – maybe what happened to their father had been for nothing after all –

"Still not ready, my darlings?" Their mother, Maria, stepped into their rooms and took the hairbrush from Irina's hands. Elena slowly relaxed as Maria began weaving her braids. "How late you all are. You get that from me."

Maria Derevko was the most beautiful of the Derevko women, the most serious and the most feared. Irina feared her too, though not as much as she loved her. As she watched her mother work, Irina look in the long, dark dressing robe, the salt-and-pepper hair tucked in its chignon, the perfect understated elegance that would reveal to no one the intensity of the woman within. Elena, too, seemed to be caught up in the awestruck regard that both she and Irina considered their mother's birthright.

Katya adored and feared Maria as much as her sisters, but "awe" was not an emotion she possessed. "Elena's cooking up a hysterical pregnancy to pass the time."

"Be quiet!" Elena snapped.

"The child will arrive someday soon, never fear. That's the thing about prophecies, isn't it? They tell us that there's no such thing as chance. Only destiny." Maria studied Irina for a few moments, searching and yet kind. "You should wear my earrings tonight, I think. You might need to record your conversations, and besides – they'll suit your gown."

Irina nodded, relieved; she had intended to ask for them as a favor later, and now she didn't have to. "What will you wear, Mama?"

"My black velvet. It's a bit dull, really, but nobody will be paying attention to me," Maria replied, unconvincingly. According to rumor, Elena, Katya and Irina would all have to work very hard for years to come before they broke half as many hearts as Maria once had without even trying. "My girls are the ones everyone will watch tonight. And I want you all looking your best."

"Why?" Katya laughed. "Are you afraid we'll disgrace the Soviet Union?"

"Hardly. But, you know, I met your father at a ball much like this." Maria's gaze had become faraway and misty. "I came here as part of a Brazilian delegation; I'd never even left South America before. Can you believe that? I felt so nervous, so out of place. But then I saw your father, and – oh. The world fell away. So romantic."

The sisters all looked at each other, surprised by one of Maria's rare mentions of their father. He had been dead for only a year; sometimes it felt like the longest year of Irina's life. None of them knew quite how to react, so Irina said, "We're not likely to be so lucky."

"All the same – beauty creates opportunity. I want my daughters to have every opportunity." As she finished Elena's braided bun, Maria nodded once, forcefully, as though she had convinced someone to take her side in an argument. "That means I want every eye in the hall upon you."

Katya smiled slyly. "I think we can manage that."

An hour and a half later, as the orchestra played the last meandering tune before dancing began, the chatter in the hall suddenly fell to a whisper. Nearly every person in attendance had turned toward the doors, through which the three Derevko sisters walked, side by side, each one of them in red.

We do know how to make an entrance, Irina mused, holding her head high.

Conversation began again, and probably quite a lot of it was about the new arrivals. Elena wore a flowing caftan, the better to disguise her still-trim belly, and her hair roped at the nape of her neck. Katya's dress was low-cut but loose, and with her tousled hair she looked like a playful nymph from a Greek frieze. Irina had let her hair hang free, and the gown she'd chosen left one shoulder bare while smoothly outlining the rest of her.

Most women in the Soviet Union or other socialist republics could only dream of owning such a dress; the Derevko sisters owned many. This, too, was one of the blessings of prophecy.

Within a minute, the music struck up anew and Irina was thrown into the happy activity of choosing with whom she would dance. Of course, she couldn't make such decisions based merely on her individual preferences. That would be unproductive.

Elena, the married woman temporarily apart from her husband, had to be the most circumspect of them all. She had already moved to Comrade Ivanov, head of the Rambaldi project, whose squat wife looked on dully from the corner. A dance with him, two or three other turns around the floor with other high-ranking, unavailable Russian officials, and Elena would be done for the night – resting to preserve the pregnancy that didn't exist.

Katya, on the other hand, could be counted upon to use almost no judgment whatsoever. Yes, there she was, swinging into the dance with a fresh-faced army captain. Although Irina knew Katya would not openly embarrass them, for her this was merely a dance, not a chance to operate.

Irina looked upon everything as a chance to operate.

She looked past several hopeful stares until she saw the face of Jacques Servan. French delegation, seven years' experience. Elder brother a known republican, father a member of De Gaulle's resistance. No proof that he was an agent for the United States, but the possibility couldn't be ruled out. Irina held out her hand to him and, during the number, talked about cities they most wanted to visit. When she mentioned New York and San Francisco, he responded enthusiastically about both; Jacques knew places she should eat, views she should see.

 _Multiple visits to the United States are contraindicated by his job seniority and his salary level. Investigate further for high risk of espionage._

When Jacques bowed and released her, Irina found her way to General Yee. Chinese army, highest rank. Wholly loyal to the Chinese government, despite past, tactfully phrased opportunities to provide information to the Soviet Union. Where persuasion would not suffice, blackmail could be necessary. Irina danced close to General Yee, slid his hand along her waist so that it caressed her hipbone, and murmured the sort of foolish things about men in uniform that a young woman can get away with. General Yee was wholly unmoved.

 _Attempts to blackmail General Yee through enticement with women are doomed to fail. He is unmarried and shows no visible sign of interest in female attention. Task a male agent for the honey trap._

On and on it went, every dance complex on multiple levels. Irina had not done very much field work – her assignment to study the Rambaldi texts prevented that – but each time she got the chance, she relished the opportunities. It fascinated her as almost no other task ever did.

Besides, concentrating so hard on her tasks kept her from remembering the first time she'd ever danced in this ballroom. Irina had been 17 years old; her partner had been her father, guiding her upon the dance floor with grace and pride.

She thought of his funeral – a shock of autumn leaves on the floor of his grave, red-orange like a burst of flame awaiting his coffin – and then she thought of him no more, only on her duty.

After a dance with a Hungarian diplomat who was too skilled at keeping his mouth shut, Irina intended to wander across the room for some "fresh air," until she made contact with a certain member of the Finnish scientific community rumored to know more about rocketry than he should. But even as she glanced toward the corner where he had been last, another figure blocked her view.

"I beg your pardon." It was the tall man from the Canadian delegation she had noticed earlier that afternoon. As he gazed at her, he looked anything but bored. "I wanted to ask for the next dance. If it's not breaking some sort of protocol."

His name and dossier were not among the many Irina had been given to memorize. That meant he was of low priority. Therefore, she should have ignored him. But he was tall – taller than her by a few inches, a rare luxury for Irina – and he was handsome, about her age. There was something about his small, knowing smile that she liked. "There's no protocol about asking me to dance."

"Is there protocol dictating whether or not you can accept?"

"No." She tucked a lock of her flowing hair behind one ear, considering. "Only my decision as to whether or not you're worth my time."

That half-hidden smile tugged as his lips again, and Irina realized she was smiling back. Quietly, he said, "Don't leave me in suspense."

She offered her hand. He took it easily in his, leading her toward the floor, and within two steps they were dancing.

"Irina Derevko," he said.

"You have me at a disadvantage. Few men ever manage that."

"I'll remember the occasion, then. I'm Jack Bristow."

"I don't know you."

"I didn't rate a dossier? I'm not working hard enough."

His hand was steady against her back, so broad that his fingers and palm almost seemed to circle her. Jack was not an especially skilled dancer, but he was competent enough. Irina didn't have to think about the steps; she could simply relax and move with him.

"Tell me, Jack, does my reputation precede me? Or just my name?"

"I know that Derevko family has risen to prominence in the Moscow elite, especially during the past decade." He answered her smoothly, neither trying to cause offense nor taking any care to avoid it. "You and your sisters are often in the public eye. Nobody's exactly sure why."

"You don't think we might be known for our skills? Our talents?"

"Elena is among the coordinators of the primary-school system, and she's been an influential force in reforming the orphanages. Katya is a military liaison noted for her skill in tactics. You are an academic and a scholar." Jack did not say all this as though he had memorized it, more as though he had discovered it. "All very impressive – for anyone, much less women of your age. But those accomplishments don't explain your family's prominence. It's curious."

"I agree."

Did Jack know more than he was letting on? Possibly, but in that case, Irina found it unlikely that he would talk about her sisters and their importance so soon and so openly. In her experience, most citizens of non-socialist nations had difficulty understanding what an enormous role spirituality and the occult could play in the highest levels of the government of the USSR. But Stalin himself had founded the Rambaldi research decades ago, and every Soviet leader since had shared his fascination. Privately Irina theorized that, once the superstition of a god had been driven from a country, something else flowed in to fill the gap.

For the members of the "Moscow elite," as Jack termed them, that gap was filled with Rambaldi – and with expectations for the sisters Derevko.

Jack spun her in a slow, lazy turn. The filmy hem of Irina's red dress fluttered around her as she moved, and when she swung back into Jack's arms, she found she liked the sensation.

"So," she murmured, "you decided to dance with one of the famous Derevkos? This is your cue to tell me you chose the most beautiful one."

"If I had," Jack said, "I would have chosen her." He nodded to the side, and Irina turned her head to see her mother, sipping Champagne as she talked with one of the cosmonauts.

"That's rather gallant of you."

"Just the truth."

"That's why it's gallant, because it's true and you admit it. If you were lying, it would merely be cheap."

"Ah. Too bad." When Irina cocked her head quizzically, Jack said, "That you like honesty best. I've found that it's usually in short supply."

"Between men and women?"

"Between officials from different countries." He smiled. She realized that his hair was curly, but brushed down flat for the special occasion. This made him seem oddly vulnerable to her, just for a moment. "And, yes, between men and women."

"Let me test your honesty, then. Which of my mother's daughters do you find the most beautiful?"

Jack considered this slightly too long for her taste. He finally replied, "I would say that Elena is the most striking. I would also say that Yekaterina is the most classically elegant."

Irina raised one eyebrow. "And?"

"And I would say that you are the most desirable." Jack's voice was soft. "But I would only say that to you. It isn't polite, speaking about a woman in her absence."

She let her head fall back, an open-mouthed smile on her face as she half-sighed, half-laughed. "Does this glibness ever get you in trouble?"

"Not nearly often enough."

At this she laughed out loud, and a few heads around them turned, curious. Irina didn't care. They would be watching her no matter what, so they might as well watch her having a good time with Jack.

The music ended. Good form dictated that Irina and Jack now part ways, so that they could dance with other dignitaries and continue all the many polite functions of their roles here tonight. Their eyes met, and both of them clearly understood what they were supposed to do.

Jack didn't let go of her hand. Irina stepped closer to him, and when the next song began, they were already dancing.

Overhead glittered a heavy crystal chandelier, a carefully tended relic of tsarist days. The high, vaulted ceilings and marble floor reminded everyone of the palace this had once been. These days, children were cautioned against the intoxication of material wealth, and Irina could see why. It would be easy, tonight, to imagine herself a character in a story, about to be swept away by romance.

But as much as she liked the feel of Jack Bristow's hands against her back, the subtle masculine scent of his skin, Irina knew that this could only last for a very short time. One more day, really. Nothing much could happen in a day.

**

"Who was that?" Elena demanded, as soon as they were all alone again in their rooms. "You made a spectacle of yourself, Irina."

"I only danced." Irina kept her voice even. "I'm not the one who kicked off her slippers in a fountain."

"They were old slippers anyway," Katya protested. The skirt of her gown was still dark with splashes of water. "Leave it to you to find a good-looking one in that group of stuffed shirts, Irina. The Canadian delegation, right?"

"Yes. His name is Jack Bristow. I found him –" Irina smiled at her own reflection in the mirror as she carefully removed her mother's earrings. "—engaging."

"He's seducing you for a reason." Elena's thin fingers darted in and out of her bun like knitting needles, swiftly undoing the elaborate braids their mother had woven. "I suggest you find out what it is."

Katya shimmied out of her dress, blithely nude. "You know, seduction is sometimes its own end. Or have you not had sex in so long that you've forgotten?"

Elena grabbed the hairbrush and threw it at Katya, hard. Katya dodged it, bare breasts jiggling as she ducked. It was ridiculous – but the clear rage on Elena's face choked off any impulse Irina might have had to laugh. The sisters all stared at each other, Katya agape, Elena breathing hard from fury and exertion. Irina remained very still, absorbing what had just happened and why.

Her sister's terror about becoming pregnant ran even deeper than Irina had realized. For the first time, Irina found herself wondering if Elena really believed in Rambaldi at all.

"I'm going home. My home." Elena's hair dangled precariously from half-braided knots as she snatched up her things and stalked out into the hallway. The apartment she shared with her husband was on the outskirts of the city, but an army driver could no doubt be found for her. She slammed the door behind her so hard that the portrait of Lenin slid on its hook, dangling sideways.

"She's becoming more of a bitch every year," Katya said conversationally.

"Yes. But she was right to be suspicious."

"Aha. You think Bristow's up to something?"

"Perhaps. I'm not naïve enough to assume that I know everything about Bristow based on one evening. Obviously, I'll need more information." Irina set to work unzipping her gown. "I have to do that useless museum tour tomorrow morning, so I don't have much time. But you don't have to attend any functions until the afternoon."

Katya flopped back onto the bed, and it was hard to guess whether she was exhausted from all the partying she had just done or the thought of work she was about to do. "This means I'll be researching Jack Bristow all morning, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does. Just to be sure. You can brief me at lunchtime."

"If you learn something that makes you stay away, tell me – can I have him?"

"Look out, or you'll get another hairbrush thrown at you. And I won't miss."

**

Irina had known from the earliest stages of planning this gathering that her tour of the science museum was merely a place-filler: something for less important members of less important delegations to do with their morning while the real meetings took place somewhere else. She had prepared thoroughly, but she felt about as much anticipation for the event as the attendees would – namely, not much.

Then Jack Bristow walked into the lobby, nametag on his jacket and that same knowing smile on his face.

She didn't smile back. Irina felt the leap in her pulse, and her surroundings seemed to come to life around her: the cool dry air, the light on the walls, the sound of Jack's footsteps – distinct even among the murmurs and pacing of the other delegates awaiting the tour. That was the moment when she realized that she genuinely desired Jack, wanted him with a purely physical hunger that she'd felt for few other men.

But Jack didn't need to know that – not yet, anyway. So Irina remained cool, concentrating on her uniform – stiff fabric, harsh lines – and allowed it to shape her demeanor as she began the tour. Everything went exactly as expected, at least until they entered the museum's place of pride: the Moon Landing Exhibit.

"This, of course, is only a replica of the landing module." Irina ran her hands along the white steel by way of demonstration; despite the fact that it wasn't genuine, she still felt a thrill of real pride – rare, and therefore welcome. "But it matches in all specifications the module that made the historic first landing on the moon two years ago. You will understand, gentlemen, that we cannot give you full access to the rocketry labs. But you are very welcome to examine this."

As Irina had expected, many of the delegates took out their cameras instantly. The room was filled with the snap and whirr of shutters and film. Jack Bristow merely folded his arms. "What about the Soyuz rockets?"

"I beg your pardon?" Irina raised an eyebrow.

"Is there a replica of the Soyuz rocket we could examine? The module – although certainly fascinating – isn't the real technological breakthrough. The rocket is far more impressive."

"A Soyuz rocket is a few hundred meters long," Irina replied. "We could scarcely keep it here in the historical exhibit, could we?"

The modest joke made a few of the delegates chuckle, but Jack didn't smile. "Still, you must have a replica somewhere. For the students."

"The students study blueprints and diagrams. Soyuz models never leave the aeronautical facilities."

"Could we make arrangements to see them?" Jack stepped a little closer to her. The wall behind him, like the ceiling above, was painted dark blue and spangled with white slashes meant to suggest stars. "In the spirit of international cooperation, of course."

"Even among friendly nations, some things remain secret. The exact specifications of the Soyuz are classified – as you well know."

"I would have thought a failed model would no longer be classified."

The word – failed – tugged at the attention of the other delegates; a few of them were staring now, though most pretended not to listen. Irina cocked her head, pretending to be slightly puzzled. "The Soyuz is the most advanced rocket known to science, Mr. Bristow. It's responsible for most of the latest triumphs of the Soviet space program, including mankind's first flights to the moon."

"But it's been grounded for the past eight months." Jack said this as though it were established fact. It was not. The latest variant of the Soyuz had been grounded ten months ago. That information was a closely guarded state secret – but not, it appeared, guarded closely enough.

Irina did not let any of this show in her response. "The rocket isn't grounded by any means. After the success of the moon shots, the leaders of our space program are carefully considering what advances to pursue next. We have the luxury of time. After all, space is infinite."

The latest reworking of the Soyuz had now exploded on test launch pads five times. Jack Bristow knew it – or most of it. And, as Irina posed for photographs with the lunar module, she realized that all the other delegates would know it soon.

Jack's superiors in the Canadian government had wanted that information known, but they hadn't wanted to take the risk of circulating it clandestinely. Instead, they had planted Jack to ask the right question in the right place. All these delegates would report on his questioning, which meant that their governments would be the ones to come asking for the details. Not only would the news of the problem in the Soviet space program spread more quickly, but it would do so in a way that made the dissemination of that news a favor Canada was doing for other nations. Minor – but swift and clever, in its way.

She wondered if Jack had been the one to think of it and decided he probably had.

After the tour ended, and the guests began to disperse, Irina elected to walk back to her family's apartment. Jack Bristow fell into step beside her on the road, hands in the pockets of his coat. It was a cool day for August, but sunny and bright.

"I'd apologize for upsetting you," Jack said. "But then you'd insist that I hadn't upset you, and then we'd have to pretend that I don't have anything to apologize for."

"You were doing your job; I was doing mine. Diplomacy is warfare by other means, after all. That was a fairly minor skirmish." Irina shrugged. Her lack of offense was genuine. In some ways, Jack was complimenting her now by openly acknowledging that she understood him. "I hadn't realized you might be part of the tour. I was surprised to see you."

"I wasn't supposed to be there," he admitted. "I traded assignments with someone this morning, after I found out you'd be here."

"You know, some women prefer a man who plays it cool."

"Men who aren't leaving the country in 36 hours can afford to play it cool. I don't have that luxury."

Thirty-six hours. How much could Jack complicate her life in such a short time? Irina decided his company might be worth the trouble. "Then you're quite right. I suggest you seize the moment to see as much – of Moscow – as you'd like."

"Could you serve as my tour guide? This afternoon, maybe. I'd repay the favor with dinner."

She looked sidelong at him. He was squinting at her in the sunshine, an expression that was difficult to read, but she thought she saw true uncertainty there. Hope, too.

A brass band in the distance began playing the _Internationale_. Jack matched her steps, pace for pace. Irina decided that being too cautious about this was the same as admitting weakness – and she wasn't weak.

"I'm busy this afternoon, but -- I'd like to have dinner." It turned out Jack could smile as broadly as anyone else, given reason. "You're staying at the Hotel Rossija, aren't you?" He nodded, and Irina quickly made up her mind. "They have excellent service. Why don't we dine together in your room?"

That won her a raised eyebrow. "My room?"

"The hotel staff can set up the table, bring us dinner and – let us be." Irina spoke softly, meaning to tantalize him, but a delicious kind of warmth swirled through her at the thought. "That way, we can have a chance to get acquainted. In private. If you'd like."

"I would like that very much." He was so serious that an observer might not have believed him. But Irina could feel the excitement beneath his calm exterior, and she thought he could sense hers, too.

That was all right. Let him see.

**

Irina hadn't even unbuttoned her uniform jacket before Katya called, "Irina? You'll want to hear this."

She walked slowly through the apartment, making her way back to Katya's room. The Derevko family, due to its favored position, had a three-bedroom apartment, with a separate kitchen and dining room; anywhere else in the Soviet Union, a residence of this size would be inhabited by at least 12 people and probably more. Irina had often been grateful for the luxury, but now the cavernous space and silence seemed foreboding.

Katya sat at her desk, in her uniform, every bit as official as if she'd already reported to work. "They should have known better than to call attention to Jack Bristow," she said by way of greeting. "At least, to call a Derevko's attention to him."

"He's not a diplomat, is he? He's an agent." Irina found the revelation unsurprising – and almost exciting. She liked a challenge.

"An agent. And not for the Canadians." That made Irina stop short, and Katya smiled, both proud of her detective work and happy to have caught her younger sister off-guard. "Oh, the birth certificate's genuine enough. But a few phone calls to the right sources, and we learn that Mr. Bristow's parents were Americans working in Canada at the time. He's lived in the U.S. since childhood, and he works for the CIA now. The Canadians must have agreed to pass him off as a lower-level delegate in their group."

"CIA." Irina used her fingers to comb her hair back from her face. "That was a smart move. We'd never have caught it any other way."

Katya studied her face. "Look at you – so very calm. Let's see what you say when you find out who Bristow works with."

"Who?"

"A man in the CIA named Arvin Sloane." Irina had never heard the name before, but understanding crashed in when Katya continued, "The head of the United States team investigating Milo Rambaldi."

Rambaldi. It fell into place, the final piece of the puzzle. Jack had come here to get close to one of the Derevko women so that he could learn about her family's place in the prophecies.

Irina felt vaguely sick; she sat down heavily on Katya's bed, depressed and weary and too well aware of the reason why. Had she learned that Jack was here to spy on the nuclear program, that would have been far deadlier – and yet it would not have affected her like this. She loathed herself for such illogic, but there was no denying her response.

I'm becoming like Elena, she realized. The mention of Rambaldi was enough to remind her how fragile her family's position was – how quickly everything could be taken away. And would be, if Elena failed.

(For a moment she remembered her father, carrying her on his back through the snow in a winter so long ago it was almost lost. Her mittens had been bright red against the shoulders of his dark coat.)

"Bristow hasn't asked about Rambaldi," Irina said quietly.

"Of course not. Otherwise, you'd have known Bristow's game right away. You couldn't be that foolish if you tried." Katya, who had been so giddy last night, was the brisk one now. "Probably he's going to try to get biological samples from you. Run his hands through your long, thick hair – and sweep the loose strands up later, for their visit to a CIA lab. Puts a whole new twist on the idea of a man only wanting you for your body, doesn't it?"

Irina could hear no more of this. She gestured sharply for Katya to be quiet; surprisingly, Katya obeyed, at least for a few moments.

When at last her sister spoke, she said only, "I won't tell Elena. She's right so seldom that there's no point in encouraging her because of one lucky guess."

"Thank you." No point in regrets, she told herself, willing herself to believe it. "I was to see him tonight. I'll cancel."

"The hell you will." At Irina's surprised stare, Katya added, "We need to find out more about this Bristow and his connection to Sloane. We need you to go through his things, take photos of everything you find. I'm sure you'll have no trouble getting to his hotel room. Do what you have to do to put him very soundly to sleep. If you don't want to try it the old-fashioned way, we'll supply you with drugs."

Irina simply nodded.

Katya, perhaps trying to be helpful, said, "At least you get a chance to do some real field work."

"At least."

**

She'd planned on whiling away the hours until her date in pleasant anticipation. Instead Irina went to their gymnasium, determined to push herself hard. There came a level of physical activity during which introspection was impossible.

But Irina couldn't quite get there.

Jogging up and down the broad concrete steps that hugged the wall of the basketball court – working furiously on the rowing machine – lifting barbells in the very center of the women's weight room, oblivious to all those around her – Irina remained trapped in thought. In memory.

Finally she decided that perhaps sparring with a partner might do the trick: It required so much more concentration than anything else. She went to one of the mat rooms and asked to take the next available partner; the wait didn't last long.

"Mama?"

"Hello, my dear." Maria Derevko, like her youngest daughter, wore shapeless gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. "Don't be discouraged. I promise to go easy on you."

"You always say that," Irina replied. "But you never do."

"Today we have to talk. Don't we?"

No answer was required. They took their stances, one opposite the other, tensing for combat. Irina usually began by focusing on an opponent's body, either the hands or the feet, gauging the potential sources of the first blow. When she fought her mother, she began by staring her deep in the eyes. Always she thought that the answers might be revealed there –

The heel of her mother's hand came so close to Irina's face that she could feel the displaced air; she had to jerk back so hard to avoid the blow that she almost stumbled.

With her mother, the answers were never obvious.

"Watch your footing." Maria remained unruffled, circling Irina slowly. "Katya tells me you're tasked to the American agent now. Play that correctly, and it could be quite the feather in your cap."

"I'll get the film."

"I don't doubt that. But there's more to playing the game well than producing the right evidence."

Irina feinted with her arm, then kicked; Maria had to leap back, but she did so easily enough. "I realize that."

Maria's eyes were more unreadable than ever. "You're troubled. Katya saw it, and I see it too."

"Nobody outside the family will ever know."

"Good. Because if you were known to have difficulty in this assignment, you'd be unlikely to receive any others."

The reward for turning a simple, carefree dalliance into a cold-hearted betrayal was the chance to do it again. Splendid.

Maria said, "You're not in love with him, are you?"

Irina laughed, more from surprise than any humor. "Jack Bristow? Hardly. I just met him yesterday; you were there."

"Then we must look elsewhere to find the source of your difficulty, mustn't we?"

Her mother moved as if to hit her, but when Irina readied herself for the block, she found herself being tugged and tumbled, then falling to the mat, hard. She was on her feet in an instant, but the damage to her pride was done.

Maria knew. She already knew. Given that, maybe it was best to just bring the subject out into the open, at last. "You're right, of course. I suppose we both know that this assignment troubles me because – Rambaldi, the Americans -- it reminds me of what happened to Papa."

On the last syllable of her father's name, Irina kicked, and this time she sent her mother sprawling down at her feet. Maria didn't immediately rise. For a moment, Irina almost panicked – what if she'd hurt her? – but instead of pain, she saw in her mother's face undeniable relief.

"I'd begun to believe that none of you girls would ever speak to me about it again."

"What is there to say?"

Instead of treating this like the rhetorical question it was, Maria replied, "That he died quickly. Painlessly. And that he never knew his treachery had been discovered – or how disappointed his family had been in him."

Irina felt almost numb. She put her arm out, meaning to lean against the wall to support herself, but then Maria got to her feet and there was no time to show weakness. "Is that meant to make me happy?"

"I should think you'd be glad he didn't suffer."

"I am, but – Mama, how could you do it? You?"

She punched, but her mother blocked the strike, turning her arms to shove Irina to the side. Maria was breathing heavily now, but Irina – already exhausted from her workout – knew she was fading even faster.

"Think, Irushka. If anyone else had taken the task, suspicion might have fallen on me next. The Rambaldi prophecies your father traded away to the Americans so carelessly – they hadn't been fully understood yet. You girls weren't safe. It was my job to keep you safe." Maria's head drooped, ever so slightly, and for the first time in Irina's memory, she truly looked her years. "And anyone else might not have cared so much that it be quick and painless. If I did it, I could be sure that it was done right. And it was. If you can't respect that, then you don't respect me."

Irina gave up even the pretense of sparring further, sinking down to sit heavily upon the mat. If her mother wanted to hit her again, let her hit. "I always respect you, Mama. But – he loved us so much, and I thought you loved him."

"I did, and I still do. Always."

"Didn't you ever wonder why Papa did it? It wasn't for money. I think you know that much. Don't the reasons why matter to you?" Irina's other questions – _What if he had a good reason? What if you'd taken us and run away with him, instead of accepting the orders? Don't you wonder what our lives might be like then?_ – these remained unspoken.

Maria lifted her head. "I never wonder. I may be an immigrant to the Soviet Union, but I am a loyal citizen, and a loyal agent. More than that, I had three children to protect. I did my duty to my country and my daughters, and that knowledge has never failed to sustain me."

"You make it sound easy."

"No, my darling. It was not easy." She sounded weary, even old, but Maria's eyes were still dry. "Sometimes I regret that you aren't allowed to do more field work. Being pampered in the heart of Moscow – it's kept you from learning some hard truths you need to learn."

Irina wiped sweat from her forehead. "I'm doing field work tonight."

"Yes, this errand of yours, that's minor, but in the future – when you have to do something truly difficult -- ask yourself what duty means to you, Irina. When you know the answer to that – know it in your heart – you'll always know how to handle yourself. You'll always be strong."

"I understand."

"No, you don't." Maria offered her daughter a hand to help her up. "But someday, you will."

 

**

Irina dressed for her date carefully, choosing a slim black skirt and a creamy white blouse. She let her hair hang loose down her back. Instead of calling for a driver, she simply took the train; the Kitay-Gorod station was close to the Hotel Rossija, and besides, it might be better if there were no official record of her movements this night.

One rap, and Jack Bristow was at the door – so quickly that her hand was still raised. "Irina. Hi. Glad you could make it." For a moment, he seemed awkward; Irina's first thought was that this was unlike him, but her second thought was that this was probably more like Jack – the real Jack – than anything else she'd seen of him so far. He recovered quickly. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." When in doubt, keep things simple.

Jack's only concession to the informality of their dining arrangements had been to hang his jacket in the wardrobe and roll his sleeves halfway up his forearms. His room was small, befitting his junior station, but it was immaculately neat, and the table wedged in the corner was bedecked with a tablecloth and a lit candle. Two covered dishes and a bottle of Champagne awaited.

"I took the liberty of ordering. I hope that's all right." He stood just behind her now, so close that she felt a shiver along her back.

"Absolutely." She took a few steps toward the window; outside, the sun was setting, and the twilight fell upon Spasskaya Tower. "We have so little time. We shouldn't waste a moment."

Jack murmured, "Glad we agree."

Then he leaned toward her – he was such a big man, broad and tall. Irina knew that he meant to kiss her, and she tilted her face upward to welcome him. But after the first, tentative brush of his lips on hers, and the perverse thrill that fluttered through her, she ducked her head away. "Dinner." She rested her hands on his chest, briefly. "I'm starving. Besides, a girl needs her strength."

Breathing out, half in frustration and half in anticipation, Jack said, "Right. Dinner."

He turned his attention to the Champagne cork as she carefully drew the room's curtains shut. The pop! made her tense, but only for a split second. Jack filled their flutes while she went to her purse and took out a compact, quickly touching up her nose.

"So, what did you do all afternoon?" Jack said, uncovering the dishes to reveal two excellent steaks. Pity they'd go cold. "To work up such an appetite/"

"I went to the gymnasium. Did some sparring." Irina slipped the compact back into her purse, then fished around a moment more until she found what she needed.

"I bet that works off some tension when you've had a long day. "

She laughed. "Yes, it's helpful then. And any other time I think I might have to kill a man."

With that, she pointed her pistol straight at Jack.

He froze, instantly, not in fear but in readiness. Irina took a step forward. "If you move, I'll shoot. If you do anything besides what I tell you to do, I'll shoot." Although Jack didn't move, she could see he was still weighing his options – including dying in the performance of his duty. "You have a chance to get out of here alive, which I don't expect to sway you. But I can promise you that your death will not be a secret. It will be public, embarrassing and messy, and do more damage than any information you might willingly reveal."

"I'm not telling you anything."

"I don't really expect you to. But you might confirm a few things I already know. First, I have to ask you to sit down."

Jack gave the steak knives – so close – one hard look, and Irina readied herself to pull the trigger. But instead he sat down in the nearest chair. With her free hand, she fished a set of handcuffs from the bag.

"Good thing I didn't see those earlier," Jack said. "Would've gotten my hopes up."

"Spare me the repartee." Irina tossed him the handcuffs; instead of catching them, he let them fall in his lap. He was following orders carefully: good. "Pick them up. Put a cuff around one wrist, and test it, hard. I'll know if you're faking it." He didn't fake it. "Attach the other end to the arm of the chair. Test it." She began to relax. "Excellent. I like a man who'll do what he's told."

"Now I understand the sparring. You're not just a professor, are you?"

"GRU." She sat on the edge of the bed, gun in hand but no longer at the ready. Jack was well-secured, and the night was young. "Do you expect me to believe you didn't know?"

"The intel on you was clean."

Given how little field work Irina had done, this made a certain degree of sense. "So, you didn't think I was a spy. That confirms my suspicions about your reasons for targeting me. It really is all about Rambaldi."

His eyes narrowed. For the first time, Irina glimpsed the steel lurking beneath the surface of Jack Bristow, cold and strong. "We aren't having this conversation. If this is the part where your men come in to start 'persuading' me, let's get started."

"It's only me, and I don't intend to persuade you of anything." Irina tucked her gun into the waist of her skirt and began methodically going through Jack's things. Most of it, of course, was the usual stuff, shirts and shoes and boxer shorts. But then the dop kit held a can of shaving cream that opened up to reveal an empty syringe, a few sample vials and a wax-paper envelope of a very fine powder. Undoubtedly it wasn't the only such envelope in his possession. Jack watched her go through these items impassively, as though he were completely unconcerned.

"I take it you already swept this hotel room for listening devices?" she asked.

"The ones in the lamp and the telephone were easy to find. But, please, pass along my compliments to whoever bugged the sink's drainpipe. Counterintuitive and tough to find. I'm impressed."

Three bugs -- probably the limit for this room. So, nobody was listening. Interesting to know.

Irina used the camera in her purse to get a few shots of his gear, laid out on the floor. Between flash-pops, she said, "Let me guess. You were going to drug my Champagne, then take blood and hair samples while I was out cold."

"Make whatever assumptions you'd like."

"I'll take that as a yes. And then what?" Another flash illuminated the room, briefly swallowing the candlelight. "While I lay on your bed, unconscious, would you have had your way with me?"

Jack straightened in his chair. "I am not a rapist."

She glanced at him sideways; he wasn't trying to win points – he was legitimately offended. "No, I don't think that you are. But you're also not the smooth operator who claimed not to know whether he dared ask for a dance."

He didn't reply. Not easily goaded into revealing secrets, then. Irina would have been almost disappointed in Jack if he had been.

"I've been tasked with going through everything you have in your possession," she said, working through the last of his clothes. Apart from a listening device in his cufflinks, she found nothing. "I was asked to take pictures of everything and compile a report confirming your interest in Rambaldi and the ways in which my family may tie into his prophecies. Now I'm done."

"So what happens next? I go to a gulag? I hear Siberia is nice this time of year."

Irina ran her hands through her hair, combing it with her fingernails, reveling in the pure physical pleasure of it. Once several strands had been shaken free, she wound them around her finger, then slipped them into one of the vials Jack had in his kit.

Jack was staring at her now. She couldn't blame him.

The syringe's needle was extremely fine, so much so that it slipped through her skin without even a pinch; it wouldn't have awakened her from her sleep even if she hadn't been drugged. Irina let it fill with her blood, then withdrew the needle and grimaced. Within moments, that vial sat by its partner. Finally, she closed everything back up in the false shaving can where she'd found them.

"There." She smiled as she unloaded the gun, then tossed Jack the handcuff key. He caught it with his free hand, but unlocked himself from bondage haltingly; he couldn't seem to look away from her.

"What are you doing?"

 _What does duty mean to me, Mama? I'll never tell you, but at least now I know for myself._ "Setting you free."

"Obviously. But – why?"

Irina smiled lazily as she sat on the bed and slowly slipped off one high-heeled pump, then the other. "Now I've done my job. And you've done yours." She leaned back on the mattress, propping up on her elbows, allowing one lock of her thick chestnut hair to fall across her cheek. "That means we have the rest of the evening free – to do whatever we'd like."

The disbelief on Jack's face gradually shifted from flat bewilderment to an incredulous smile. "You," he said. She raised an eyebrow. Jack finally managed to finish: "You – are not like the other girls."

Irina laughed, low and husky. He put one hand on the bed, then one knee, steadily edging onto the mattress to crawl toward her – over her. Remaining utterly still, Irina watched Jack intently until his arms enclosed her shoulders. She lifted her chin so that their lips nearly touched.

"You said something earlier," Irina murmured. "About not wanting to waste any time."

"That doesn't mean I want to take things too quickly."

The heat in his voice left no doubt what he meant. "I like the sound of that."

Jack covered her mouth with his, kissing her so slowly and so deeply that it felt as if she were melting into him, and it was finally all right to let go, to kiss him back.

For the rest of the night there was no talk of missions, of agencies or of anything else cold or official. And yet they talked – more than Irina had ever talked in bed before, for longer than she'd ever been with a man before – about everything else in the world. None of their conversation went too deep, of course, but they glided upon the surface like champion skaters, engaging each other with words – at least, when they had enough breath to talk.

"You have to have known where babies came from by that age," she protested in the bath, as he soaped his hands, then began caressing her breasts, his fingers kneading soft flesh.

"By age five?" Jack kept kissing the back of her neck. "Nope, no clue."

"What did you think your parents were up to at night?"

He laughed softly. She liked his laugh. "I thought they were sleeping. And they kept their bedroom door locked."

"Ah, so this is what comes of parents and children sleeping in different rooms." Irina rested her arms on his thighs, utterly comfortable. "Ignorance."

"Not so ignorant," Jack insisted, dipping his slippery fingers between her legs to prove his point.

After they'd toweled one another dry, they luxuriated on the bed, kissing and stroking and licking and, still, talking.

"Fifteen."

"Really? I mean, oh." Jack, now informed of the number of lovers Irina had already had, went back to sucking her toes. This felt absolutely delicious – why hadn't she tried this before? – but Irina was amused by his surprise.

"You think that's too many."

"Nmm-mm." It was a no, she could tell, even if Jack's tongue was busy doing something extraordinary to the soft place between her first two toes.

"I don't believe you. You think I'm a whore."

He kissed the sole of her foot. "I think you like saying the word 'whore.'"

"Maybe I do."

"Does that mean you want me to say it to you?"

"Maybe. Not yet."

"Okay." Jack dropped a kiss on her anklebone, and his broad hands gently parted her thighs. Irina tilted her hips and arched her back. His breath was hot between her legs as he whispered, "Nine," and then his tongue slipped into her, slick and firm, catching the rhythm of the way she moved.

As they ate their not-very-warm steaks and finally drank some Champagne, Irina sat in Jack's lap. He wore a bathrobe he'd brought – snow-white and soft, and entirely covetable – while Irina lounged naked atop him.

"The Grand Canyon, I suppose," she said, between sips of the sparkling wine. "I read that it was 'unimaginably vast.' I've never truly seen anything that defied imagination. So I would want to see that."

"It's – astonishing." Jack contemplated his memories of the Grand Canyon, thoughtfully chewing his long-delayed dinner. "You should see it someday."

"Someday." That would never happen, and they both knew it. Irina refused to let melancholy claim her; instead she curled the collar of Jack's robe around his neck, using it to cuddle him. "What about you? Where in all the Socialist Republics do you most want to go?"

"I'm here."

"Moscow?"

"Yes. But – also here. With you. I can't imagine anyplace I'd rather be right now."

"As flirtation goes, that was simple – yet effective."

Jack was still smiling when she kissed him, but as she deepened the kiss, the smile faded, replaced by real need. Irina tugged herself away, almost cruelly, and gave him a taunting smile as she began to crawl onto the bed, teasing him to follow.

As she took her second foot from the floor, on her hands and knees on the mattress, Jack said, "Wait. Like that." Holding the position, arching herself for his gaze, Irina watched Jack rise from his chair and peel away his robe. She liked his body; he was strong, well-made. Especially she liked looking back at him, naked and hard for her, his eyes dark. His hand gripped her waist, and Irina let her head tilt toward the bed, and then Jack was pushing inside her, teasing her with it, deeper and deeper by degrees. When she could wait no more, Irina pushed back, forcing him in as far as he could go, and both of them gasped, finally lost in each other.

In the wee hours of the morning, when they both lay shaking, side-by-side, beneath the covers, she murmured, "Hope I haven't tired you out."

"You still want more. Amazing." Jack breathed out, hard; his hands were above his head, hanging onto the headboard, for all the world like a boxer on the ropes. "I finally meet an insatiable woman, and she's a Russian spy. Figures."

"I finally meet a man with true stamina, and he's an American spy." Irina sighed, then kissed his sweat-damp chest. "But I can't go to sleep any more than you can."

Jack began to smile. "Because we'd steal each other blind."

"Precisely."

"I wish things were different," he said, and suddenly the confident man she'd seen during the past day was gone. There was an uncertainty to Jack now – a seriousness – that again felt more genuine to her. It was a glimpse of the man himself, not the role he was playing for her benefit. "I think you'd be someone worth knowing."

Irina whispered, "You too." And then quickly, before the conversation could deepen, she kissed him once more. The kisses carried away any thought of talking for a very long time.

An hour after dawn, when exhilaration had finally faded into true exhaustion, Irina rose and began to get dressed. Jack helped her find her shoes.

"What about my earrings?" she said, as if truly worried. "Can you look in the bathroom?"

"Sure." Jack, again clad in his now-rumpled bathrobe, padded in there to check on the earrings that were in her purse. Irina hurriedly sank to her knees, undid his fake "shaving cream," retrieved the samples she'd given him the night before and tossed them into her bag. That gave her just enough time to draw her earrings out and show them to Jack with a smile. "Found them."

"Good." He kissed her forehead, unconcerned.

After that, it took her only a few minutes to finish getting ready. Irina was glad she'd chosen her outfit wisely the night before; the shirt and skirt would attract no notice on the morning train, as a dress might have done. Of course, her mussed hair gave the game away entirely – but she tucked it back into a loose tail at the nape of her neck, which at least appeared decent.

Then there was nothing to say but goodbye.

"Thanks," Jack said. "For not killing me. And for everything else."

"You're welcome – for not killing you. The rest was as enjoyable for me as it was for you, so no thanks are necessary."

Their lips met for the last time. "Farewell, Jack." She brushed her fingertips along his cheek. "Have a good life."

"You too," Jack said, squeezing her hand, just for a moment. "Goodbye."

Then Irina ventured into the hotel hallway, went unnoticed and hurried home. She felt conspicuous on the ride back, despite her modest outfit, but mostly she was grateful to return to her family's apartment and her own broad bed.

"My word," Katya said, looking her up and down from her place at the table. "You look exhausted."

"I am exhausted," Irina replied with a grin. Breakfast smelled good, but a nap sounded even better.

Good-naturedly, Katya called, "I want a report this afternoon, you slut." Irina just waved a hand at her sister before going to her room.

She shut the door, dropped her purse on the bedstand, kicked her shoes off (with a smile as she remembered the last time she'd done so) and unfurled her hair. It would feel so good to go to sleep, maybe to dream of the night she'd just experienced, thus making the pleasure last even longer. But first, Irina knew she needed to bundle up her assignment for Katya and have it ready to turn in this afternoon. She disliked doing even this much of her "duty," but at least Jack knew what she knew and could pass it on. That was enough treason for one night; Irina could think of other opportunities later.

A flip of the switch opened her camera to reveal – absolutely no film.

At all.

 _When?_ She could think of no moment that she'd left an opening for Jack to go through her things, but obviously, he'd found a way.

Somewhere, probably on a plane to the West, Jack Bristow had her film. And was opening up his can of shaving cream to realize that they had, in fact, robbed each other blind.

The laugh bubbled up inside Irina almost before she knew it, so that she startled herself with her own cackling. She gripped her sides, flopped forward onto the bed and laughed silently into the mattress, so that her body shook and tears welled in her eyes. Of COURSE he'd robbed her. Just as she had him. They were just alike, the two of them.

Oh, the GRU would be unhappy, but a failed grab at intel was nothing new. Probably she would get a minor reprimand, no more; Jack would probably face a similarly light slap on the wrist. So Irina suspected that, deep down, their mutual thievery amused almost him as much as it did her. Already it felt like a shared joke.

Of course, Jack could have no idea how deeply happy he'd made her by thwarting the GRU's plans. But that was all right; she gave him some credit for it anyway. Still laughing, Irina got undressed and slipped naked between her sheets. Was it possible to fall asleep smiling? She thought she might find out.

 _I could actually have cared for Jack, Irina decided as she shut her eyes. Maybe it's a good thing he's already gone, before I could get in too deep._

All the same, in the last moment before sleep claimed her, Irina wished she had something to remember him by.

 

 

END PART FOUR


	5. The Interrogation

_outside Denver, Colorado  
March 1972_

 

"You're younger than I thought you'd be," Captain Hawkins said, a broad grin on his face. His uniform was crisp and formal compared to Jack's suit, rumpled from the plane.

Jack understood from this that Hawkins resented having his authority over the detainee taken away by the CIA, particularly someone he believed to be in a junior position. He simply smiled politely, making sure to use every inch of the six he had on Hawkins as they paused in the hallway. "I've reviewed her preliminary statement. It's – unpersuasive."

"It's a load of horseshit, is what you mean. She's sticking to the story, though. I guess they think you can get more out of her."

"Yes." Jack was past ready for this conversation to end. "I'll see her now."

"Yeah, this is a good time for me. Thanks for asking."

"I can be more effective if I see her alone."

Hawkins didn't like that either, but he kept a grin plastered on his face as he opened the door. Jack let it swing shut behind him as he headed down the hallway of the Army detention center, toward the holding cell at the very end. His footsteps echoed off the pale green linoleum, making it sound as though he had guards with him. Did that effect work for or against him? Perhaps he'd find out.

The cell was a small room with cinderblock walls and a metal door with a heavy glass window, crosshatched with the fine silver lines that rendered it shatter-proof. Two Army guards stood outside, and to Jack's surprise, another one stood inside. The only furnishings were a small cast-iron bed with military-issue linens and a single plastic chair; the toilet and sink were jammed into a corner. Clearly this room was meant only for short-term incarceration – soldiers who had gone AWOL, perhaps – instead of the long-term confinement at hand. On the bed sat the detainee, wearing an Army-green coverall two sizes too large, her head in her hands.

Jack stepped inside. "Hello."

She didn't move. "You're not military." She'd gathered this by studying his shoes and trouser legs, apparently. "That means you're CIA."

"Yes."

"Come to torture me?"

"No. To talk to you."

"We'll see." Her voice sounded blurry – almost as though she were drunk, though that was impossible. Her hands were too thin, hinting at the framework of bone beneath.

Jack glanced at the private standing against the wall and said, "You can go."

"Sir – we're supposed to keep the prisoner under 24-hour watch –"

"Standing outside the cell will be sufficient. Thank you." The private obviously distrusted this change in orders, but he obeyed. With a glance at the toilet, Jack said, "I can follow him, if you'd like five minutes of privacy."

At that, she finally looked up at him. Her face was probably not an unattractive one, under different circumstances. She was desperately thin, her skin sallow beneath the fluorescent lights. The gray-green remnants of a black eye outlined her cheekbone. Whoever had barbered her hair so short had done a terrible job: it stuck out at different lengths, sometimes cut down to the scalp itself, and above her right ear, Jack could see a livid mark that might've been an accident with the scissors.

"So," she said, "you're the good cop."

"Not exactly. But the offer is genuine."

"Then I wish I'd waited until you got here."

"Do you need anything to eat?"

She laughed, a hollow sound. "You know that all I need is sleep. And you know you're not going to give it to me."

The clues of her posture, enunciation and appearance finally clicked into place. Hawkins had employed sleep deprivation to try and break the prisoner down. The man was an amateur. Methods like that were for times of last resort. Jack did not automatically look upon this woman as a trustworthy potential source, but he also would've known better than to needlessly antagonize and brutalize her so early in the process.

"Go to sleep," Jack said. "I'll stay here and make sure they don't awaken you."

"They've said that before." She couldn't quite hold her head upright, though she was trying. Was this her fourth day without? Her fifth? "They let me just start to drift off, and then they jerk me up by my shoulder – I'm sure you know how the story goes."

"I do. But that's not the way I operate."

"Ah. I see. You're too kind for such methods."

"Obviously we don't know one another very well yet, or you wouldn't say that."

This time, the weary smile on her face was halfway genuine. "Another bastard, but an honest bastard. That's a nice change of pace."

More quietly, Jack repeated, "Go to sleep."

The searching stare she gave him then might've been hard to face, if her exhaustion and weakness hadn't been so clear. Even in this condition, her intelligence and will were more powerful than her fear, and Jack realized in that moment that the standard mind-games wouldn't work, not on this one. His expression never changed, but apparently, in his face, she found the answer she sought, because she stretched out on her bunk. Jack half-turned to face the soldiers outside, who looked alarmed, and he made a cutting gesture with his hand that warned them to keep out or else. By the time he turned back, she was already fast asleep. Her hands remained clenched in fists.

He'd have to be careful with Irina Derevko – assuming, of course, that was even her real name.

**

Jack remained by Derevko's side for four hours, during which she slept so soundly that she didn't even move. Four hours was the amount of time it took for a body to complete one REM cycle, the bare minimum for restoration. After having guaranteed her at least that much rest, he carefully rose and slipped out the door; he needn't have worried, because she remained still and serene.

The guards protested Jack's orders, but Jack made the new hierarchy clear to them, then went upstairs and filed memos in triplicate that would make the new hierarchy equally clear to Captain Hawkins. They'd come get him just after she awoke, which Jack knew would probably be no more than another four hours, no matter how tired she was. When she got a good night's sleep tonight, he reasoned, she'd finally believe that the torment was over.

And then their conversations about her – statement – could begin.

It was as bizarre a narrative as Jack had ever read, and he was not inclined to believe a word of it. However, he already knew that some of the most outlandish tales he'd heard in espionage were absolutely true; reality sometimes had a way of outstripping fiction, and perhaps that was what he was dealing with here. He held that open only as the most distant possibility, but he was determined not to close his mind to any theories at this point.

After all, KGB agents didn't walk in to the Seattle field office and offer intel every day. Whether Derevko was telling the truth, conducting an elaborate countermove by the Soviets or simply going insane – that was his to determine.

When they finally told him that Derevko had awakened, Jack made a quick trip to the base cafeteria, then took a tray to her cell.

She didn't express gratitude, which Jack hadn't expected, and she didn't crack sarcastic jokes, which he had expected. Instead, she stared up at him with dark, hollow eyes, and he wondered for a moment if her exhaustion earlier had been so extreme that she'd been unable to form any lasting memory of their encounter.

But then she straightened up, gathering the tattered remnants of her dignity around her like a shabby robe. "What's that?"

"A few things to eat. I wasn't sure what foods would most appeal to a Russian palate, so I put together a variety." As there was no table, he set her tray on the sink, which held it stably enough. Jack could've put it on the chair, but then he would have had to stand during his interview – a move Derevko would interpret as intimidation. "This is all fairly simple and bland to start with."

"Thank you for the allowing me the plastic spoon. I could kill you with it, you know."

She spoke congenially, which was how he responded. "I picked up a few spoons of my own in the cafeteria. Just so you're warned that you're dealing with an armed man."

The scrambled eggs were devoured first, and then a fair bit of the cold chicken and toast. Derevko left the lasagna alone, though Jack wondered if that was merely unfamiliarity with the dish. All three cans of apple juice vanished so quickly that an actual liking could be identified. He'd bring that for her again – a small gesture, but things like this mattered for an interrogator.

When at last she was done, she deliberately put the spoon on the tray, then moved to the other end of her bunk. Jack noted the voluntary surrender of her "weapon," a statement that she meant to cooperate. "That's the best meal I've had since Moscow."

"I don't suppose you could've eaten well on the freighter."

"No. Korean cuisine isn't my favorite, even when it's done well. And on that ship, it wasn't done well at all."

"You ate in the mess?" Jack found this considerably unlikely for someone who claimed to be a stowaway. "Or you stole from them later?"

"Neither. The first mate brought me food. He was the one I made an arrangement with in Donghai."

"You didn't mention this arrangement in your statement."

"Disappointed that I left out the X-rated parts?" Derevko cocked her head, studying him as intently as he was studying her. "If you insist on every detail, I'll share."

"No need. The arrangement's already quite clear."

"You say that as though you disapprove."

"Not at all. I might do the same, in your situation."

"I don't think the first mate was your type."

"I don't think he was yours, either."

"No. You're right about that." She shifted on the bunk, then leaned so that her back was supported by the wall. Though her posture was still alert, Jack could tell that – at least psychologically – Derevko was beginning to relax. "But he kept his word, so that makes him better than most men I've known."

"You must've been desperate to leave."

"You've read my statement, so you know the answer to that."

"I've read it."

Jack had tried to keep his voice flat, but Derevko instantly smiled, a hard expression that revealed she understood him well. "You don't believe it."

"Let's say that I'm not willing to believe it without further corroboration."

"Splendid. Get me out of here, come with me to Corsica, and we can have the proof in your hands within hours."

"You'll remain in U.S. custody until we're satisfied that your claims are accurate."

"That puts us at something of an impasse."

"Why didn't you go to Corsica first?" Jack had identified this as the key problem with her statement from the beginning; the more fantastic elements were difficult to evaluate, but tactical errors spoke for themselves. "You could have brought the proof with you."

"Not without backup. And I admit – I thought your people would be easier to convince. Quicker to listen to reason. I overestimated the CIA, a mistake I won't make again." Derevko took a deep breath that wasn't quite a sigh. "Are you going to tell me your name?"

Protocol advised against that – but it was a guideline, not a rule. Jack decided to trust his judgment. "Jack Bristow."

"Well, Bristow, if you won't help me get the proof I need, how do you intend to break this stalemate?"

"I intend to talk to you about what you've told us, and what you haven't. Once I can establish the veracity of your claims –" Or lack thereof, he thought. "—we can proceed on a different footing."

"Sounds reasonable."

Reasonable. Funny word to begin this next conversation. Jack steeled himself to listen with a straight face, then said, "So, tell me what you told the others -- about Milo Rambaldi."

She spoke for almost an hour and a half straight. Jack had already memorized all these details when he reviewed her statement, but he noted that they all remained internally consistent; whatever else these tales were, they weren't the ranting of an insane woman. He listened carefully and intently throughout all the talk of prophecies, of children of destiny, and of the even more advanced technologies that the Soviets still hoped to gain from Rambaldi's work. Most of it was described in rather vague terms; Jack wondered if that was because Derevko was being cautious or because the entire thing was so much smoke and mirrors.

Derevko's voice was raspy by the time she finished. "First they came for my sister Elena – I was younger then, and I'd never liked her, and I was short-sighted enough not to care much, except for my mother's sake. But then, last month, they took Katya too. After that, I felt no more loyalty to them."

"And you knew they'd eventually come for you."

"You're suggesting that I'm only here to save my own skin."

"It's a motive I approve of."

"I can take care of myself. What I want is something to bargain with, some way to save Katya if I can."

"You think they're trying to force her to bear this – chosen one."

"I know that they are." She shook her head. "But you still don't believe me."

Jack thought this one would know if he lied. "I'm not convinced. If it's worth anything to you, though, I can say that I believe you're worried about your sister. That you think she's in real trouble."

"Do you want me to feel flattered? That you would stoop to take my word?"

"I want to give you the few facts I can," Jack replied.

Derevko considered that for a few seconds. He suspected that she was less comforted by his words, more appalled by her own show of weakness in becoming so defensive. She sat up straight again, her back no longer touching the wall. "I appreciate that."

"Let me suggest a plan of action." Much depended on this – the nature of the days and nights to come, and the probability that Irina Derevko would be allowed to live. Yet Jack spoke evenly, using much the same tone he had to offer her lunch. "You and I can begin reviewing some of our intel on Soviet operations. The KGB clearance you described in your statement should be sufficient for you to be familiar with at least some of the materials I'd like to discuss. If you can offer us substantive information that adds to our knowledge in these areas – information we can confirm – then that would count very heavily in your favor."

"I may have been betrayed by my country, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to help yours. What's the phrase from your mythology? 'Put not thy faith in princes.'"

"I understand that your motives aren't patriotic. But I also understand that you're asking for the American government to assist you in extracting someone from deep inside Soviet territory. You can't have expected that assistance to come without a price."

"I meant to pay you through what I know of Rambaldi. Turns out it's cheap currency, here." Derevko nodded once. "All right, Bristow. You have a deal. And the sooner we start, the sooner I can prove myself to you."

He chose to ignore the barely veiled irony in her words. "You'll have to remain in custody throughout, of course. But I can get you – books. A change of clothes."

"I'd like exercise time." Apparently she wanted it badly enough not to disguise her eagerness. "Even an hour a week outside –"

"I don't know about outside. I'll check. We might start with the gym."

"That would do." Derevko's smile had a curiously unsettling quality, even when it seemed to be sincere. Maybe especially then. "The only change of clothes I need is something to exercise in. Clean underwear would be nice."

That made Jack smile in return. "I bet. Pajamas?"

"Not necessary." It took him a moment to realize what she meant, and by then she'd already moved on. "And – can you get me a scarf? For my head."

"Looks cold."

"It is, sometimes. At least my hair grows quickly."

"Did they do that to you here?" Jack didn't like the idea of Hawkins' men holding Derevko down, shearing her by force – but the blade scrapes on her scalp suggested something messy, almost violent.

Derevko shook her head. "I did this myself, on the freighter. It was during a storm. I suppose that shows."

"Keep your day job."

Derevko laughed, though she made no sound. "The second mate discovered me on board. The first mate was willing to – loan me out, in order to secure the man's silence. I didn't agree, but we were far enough from Seattle that I didn't want to fight them. So instead I made myself less attractive. Rather effectively, I think."

Jack knew better than to respond one way or the other to that. "What about the black eye? The guards?"

"No. The first mate. He didn't care for my new look."

It occurred to Jack, for the first time, how intrepid Irina Derevko had to be, to have come here under such conditions. Although it was not unheard-of to respect the subject of an interrogation – sometimes it could help – he still noted the weakening of his objectivity, so that he would know to watch himself carefully from now on.

**

Because Derevko could not be allowed anything that could easily be broken down into a weapon, Jack had the guards set up a card table in her cell before each of their sessions. He mentioned this as a suggestion to Hawkins and the other military brass who could now question her – about specific, approved intel only, as Jack and his CIA superiors made clear – but he was never sure whether or not they took it. Derevko did not speak of those sessions, and though Jack watched her carefully for signs of mistreatment, he saw none.

He brought her the head scarf on the second day. No scholar of ladies' fashions, Jack picked out something simple at the shop, dark blue, mostly because it felt soft. Given that scar, a soft scarf would probably be more comfortable. Derevko thanked him for it when he handed it to her, but never mentioned that again, either. Although she wore the scarf tightly bound around her forehead every time he saw her thereafter, he always mentally pictured her as he had first seen her, with that half-sheared head and the livid weal on her skin.

"You're three submarines short in the Arctic Ocean." Her bone-thin fingers were almost as pale as the icecap drawn on the map splayed on the card table between them. "At least, according to the last roster I saw. That was in early February."

"Three subs? What ports do they use?"

"Two of them are out of Severomorsk. Another is at Kalilingrad."

"These details should make for interesting conversation at the SALT talks."

Derevko shook her head, like a teacher observing a dull schoolboy. "You know all of this already, Bristow. You'd only ask me for information you could verify, at first. To see if I mean to be honest."

Jack had expected her to guess that, but it didn't change the fact that this was a necessary part of the process. "Will you know when I stop asking you what I already know, and start asking you what I don't?"

"Good answer." She rested her chin in her hand. "But let's cut to the chase. I'll tell you something you don't know. Here and now. Maybe that will convince you."

"Maybe. Let's hear it."

"You have a notation there for the November-class K-8 – location unknown."

"You know where it is?" Jack didn't disguise his curiosity; this intel was worth something, if true. Derevko had chosen well.

"It's at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay. It sank almost two years ago. Fifty-two lives were lost, though I'm sure that doesn't concern you."

It didn't. "The ocean floor is a big place. Do you have specific coordinates?"

"No, but I can narrow it down."

The area she pinpointed was reported to the French government, which sent their navy to search. Most of the Bay of Biscay was shallow, and all of it was rough, but in one of the deeper zones, at the border of the search parameters Derevko had suggested was – a shadow. A shape on the radar that could have been a submarine, or could not. The deep dives necessary to confirm that intel would have to wait months, until the less-stormy season arrived.

If it was a lie, Jack decided, it was a clever one. Not that he'd expect anything less from her.

"Yeah, she's smart," Hawkins said one day, during one of their infrequent and generally stiff conferences. "Smart enough to build a bunch of lies to keep us busy. I think the Russkies sent her here just to blow some smoke our way."

"It's possible."

Hawkins took a deep drag on his cigarette; the man never bothered cracking open his window to smoke, so the entire office was usually hazy and gray. "You think she's telling the truth."

"I don't have an opinion. But I suspect you do."

"Instinct, Bristow. You gotta trust it. Mine tells me not to trust her."

Jack's instinct told him not to trust Hawkins. After that talk, he should have gone back to the hotel room he was calling home while in Denver; instead, Jack went by the base's gym to see whether Derevko was getting her scheduled exercise. It would be just like Hawkins to cut corners.

But he hadn't that day; from the hallway, Jack could see Derevko in ill-fitting Army-issue sweats and the ever-present blue headscarf, running laps around the basketball court. Trying to run, more like it: After her long ordeal on the freighter and in early custody, she still wasn't strong enough to complete as much as one circuit without dropping to a walk. Even at this distance, Jack could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, the flush on her cheeks. Weak as she was, she kept going – pushing herself as hard as she could, chasing after her lost strength.

Two guards watched her, one on either end of the court. Jack found that he didn't like the thought of these strangers observing her vulnerability. Then he considered that again, turned and left. The only witness he could spare her was himself.

They continued the questioning, and when he moved into uncharted territory, he did not think Derevko could tell.

"What can you tell me about Galosh?" Jack said, between bites of chicken. He'd taken to eating lunch with her in her cell; it made their meetings less formal, more conducive to real conversation.

"It's a potential ABM system, designed to protect Moscow from ICBM attack."

"That's exactly the kind of thing we're about to sign a treaty to outlaw."

"We'll ask for permission later. And you'll give it, so you can put your own system in place. I don't know the name of the U.S. system – nobody does, I think – but nobody has to, in order to realize that your government possesses one. It's the logical deduction."

He thought that made sense. "Can you describe the dimensions of the Galosh system?"

"There are several different potential layouts; they want to have something ready-made, to fit whatever amendment the leaders later devise. I'll walk you through each."

"You have extraordinarily wide-ranging intel for such a young agent." Jack already knew this was true – not a hole in her story – but it never ceased to surprise him.

"And you have extraordinary discretion, for such a young agent. Tell me, Bristow, how did you manage it?"

This kind of turnabout question was a common diversionary tactic, but trading a certain degree of personal information was a worthwhile way to court a source. "Well, that's not a simple question."

She gestured at the cinderblock walls that contained her, the heavy, rolled-up sleeve of her coverall circling her arm like a bangle. "I have nothing but time."

"I started young. I worked hard. I made a few lucky choices early on, kept my missions clean. And I don't tell many secrets. What about you, Derevko?"

"Much the same story. Though, of course, I was called to the KGB's attention when I was still a child."

Jack ventured, "Because of Rambaldi."

"Yes." She was amused, despite herself. "You know we have to talk about it again, sooner or later."

"Let's make it later."

That night, in his hotel room, Jack watched a documentary about Bigfoot on the room's black-and-white TV. The reception was snowy, and Jack's interest in Bigfoot was, to put it lightly, not intense. But he stayed with it, watching obviously faked footage time and again, wondering how it was that sane, rational people could convince themselves of something so patently bizarre.

Was Rambaldi so different?

Then again, it was impossible to imagine a woman like Irina Derevko believing in Bigfoot. She was smarter than that. Less credulous. More demanding.

Maybe it was time for them to talk about Rambaldi after all. Jack still put no faith in it whatsoever, but he had to discover how Derevko could.

It was dangerous, imagining yourself in your captive's place – and yet Jack had found himself doing so more and more often during the past two months. Derevko's quick mind and sharp wit resonated with him powerfully, like a tuning fork vibrating at exactly the right pitch. He'd tried telling himself that it was a classic dilemma, a puzzle box worthy of game theory diagramming: _A prisoner has an utterly incredible lie to sell to her captors, so how should she begin?_ In the alternative: _A prisoner must convince her captors of an utterly incredible truth, so how can she manage it?_ Intellectual challenge always stimulated Jack, and both alternatives provided ample reason for curiosity.

But it was not intellectual challenge that made Jack ask himself whether the weal on Derevko's scalp still hurt, or if she had any chance of speaking to her sister again, or how often the reality of her situation here made her frightened.

She was smart enough to know to be frightened.

He shut off the lamp and crawled beneath the hotel's scratchy bedspread. Lights from the nearby highway were bright even through the lines of the room's Venetian blinds. Jack stared at the stripes of illumination on the ceiling and wondered how dark Derevko's room might be at night.

**

When Jack next returned to the cell, Derevko was sitting on her bunk, marking her place in one of the paperbacks he'd brought to her: The Great Gatsby. She saw him make note of her choice; Jack tried to read her expression and hazarded a guess. "You don't like it."

"It would be more appropriate to say that I don't know what to make of it. Why did you choose this for me?"

Jack had known better than to overthink the selection, and in so doing provide Derevko with a clue to his character. "I went for a standard sampling of modern American classics."

"Then I needn't worry about insulting your taste?"

"As if you'd worry."

"I'm glad we understand each other. It's clearly intelligent – I see that – but I think the author wants me to pity Gatsby, and I don't. The man makes a fool of himself for a woman who doesn't love him – no, a woman who's not even capable of love. Is this the sort of thing Americans find romantic?"

"I'm the wrong man to ask about romance."

"Perhaps." She studied him now almost as cagily as she had on the first day.

Jack thought perhaps they should get to work.

They discussed the personal history of Leonid Brezhnev for a couple of hours; Derevko had a fine ear for gossip, distinguishing neatly between likely fact and the inevitable embroidery of rumor. Normally Jack would have enjoyed the change of pace, because most of what they discussed wasn't nearly as juicy. But today he was preoccupied by the conversation they weren't having – yet.

No obvious segue ever presented itself. So, after Derevko finished talking about who might have spent the summer at Brezhnev's dacha when his wife Viktoria was elsewhere, Jack simply looked at her across the card table and said, "All right, let's talk about Rambaldi. In more depth."

Derevko blinked. She smoothed the edges of her headscarf, as if making herself ready. "Very well."

"A fifteenth-century engineer – and prophet."

"So they say. Personally –"

He cocked his head. "You don't believe?"

"I'd like to see more proof. Don't misunderstand me, Bristow. I've looked through Rambaldi's drawings and designs often enough to know that he was a genius, and his work is centuries ahead of its time. But so was Da Vinci's. This conviction that Rambaldi's knowledge was supernatural – I can't reject it, not after what I've seen, but I can't blindly accept it either." Her dark eyes flashed almost as if she were angry. "My opinion isn't the most relevant here. The attitudes of my superiors matter more. And to them, Rambaldi has taken the place of God."

"Your skepticism matters," Jack said. "It makes you more credible."

"To whom? To you?"

"To the people that I work for. They don't put much stock in this talk about prophe--"

Derevko's hand slammed against the card table so hard that it jumped. "Are you still feeding me the party line? We're past that now! Or we should be."

"No 'party line' is –"

"I've conducted interrogations too, you know. Not many and not often, but I know how it's done, and up until now, I was ready to call you a master. But this is ridiculous."

Jack watched her for a long second; she was breathing fast, cheeks flushed with real anger that she could barely control – and Derevko was a superbly controlled woman. He was missing something here, something important. "Tell me exactly why you think it's ridiculous."

"What part of this isn't ridiculous?"

"Calm down. Be specific."

The admonition to calm down angered her even further, as Jack had intended, and at last she said what was on her mind. "You keep talking to me as though you'd never heard of Rambaldi, as though the CIA never countenanced anything so far-fetched. As though the CIA hadn't been studying Rambaldi's work for years before the KGB ever learned about him! A double agent was responsible for that break; that's the man I owe my sisters' abductions to, in the end. Would you like his name?"

"Yes." Jack pretended to be interested in that, only in that, though the name belonged to a leak they'd exposed long ago. He did not bring up the subject of Rambaldi again, allowing Derevko to think that he was still playing some elaborate game with her. Above all, he could not afford to let her see his shock or his doubt.

He sat up late that night in the uncomfortable hotel chair, considering the possibilities. Irina Derevko might simply be insane, to a far deeper degree than he'd ever imagined. Jack didn't consider this likely, but he still carefully constructed that scenario in his mind. She was a madwoman, one who had woven together various bits of intel and her own fantasies in order to "explain" her family's tragedies.

Option two: This was an elaborate ruse concocted by the Soviets in order to fool Derevko. They'd made up all the talk about the Americans studying Rambaldi to scare her, maybe to add a sense of urgency to their work, even as justification for whatever the hell had happened to Elena and Katya. Derevko's journey into American custody was by Soviet design, and listening to her in any way meant playing into their hands.

Jack knew this was still the most likely possibility. But he was a thorough man, and so he weighed option three:

The CIA had in fact been working on Rambaldi research for decades, under conditions of the utmost secrecy, and had sent in an agent without clearance to that knowledge – namely Jack himself – in order to discern exactly what Irina Derevko knew without giving any of their own information away.

Believing in option three meant believing that the CIA was chasing after mystical prophets. Therefore, Jack didn't want to believe it. But as he turned it over in his mind, again and again as the hour grew later, he realized that the scenario couldn't be disproved, not with the facts he had.

He glanced at his digital watch – almost midnight. In D.C., it would be nearly 2 a.m., late enough for even the night shift to become a little sloppy. Time for a test.

As he dialed the phone, Jack mentally reviewed the faces of all the night librarians. Doris, Gwen, Debbie, Norma –

"Research."

Softness on the consonants – yes, he knew who it was. "Debbie," he said, warmly, as though he remembered her well. "It's Jack Bristow. Operations."

"Agent Bristow. Right. Hi there."

She sounded a little confused but more pleased; he'd pitched it just right. In the same warm-but-still-official tone, Jack said, "Listen, I've run into a snag with my assignment in Denver. I need to review the Rambaldi files."

"All of them?"

"Only the copies of the originals." Though he spoke simply, his stomach knotted at this flat confirmation. "The fifteenth-century stuff."

"I'll see about sending a packet out. Hold on."

Jack held on, calculating quickly. He was about to get busted, though the boom wouldn't be lowered until tomorrow. So he needed some way to bargain before tomorrow morning.

Debbie came back on the line, sounding confused. "Agent Bristow, I don't have you listed as having clearance for these files."

"Still? They told me I was being given access a week ago."

"I'll have to report the request –"

"Please do. High time we got this taken care of."

"I'm sorry, sir."

He smiled; people could always hear it in your voice. "I'm positive it's not your fault, Debbie. Thanks for trying."

The minute he hung up, the smile disappeared. Within thirty seconds, his car keys were in his hand.

Although Jack had never before visited the base at night, the guards admitted him without protest. Hawkins would have something to say about it after he read the logs, but Hawkins was pretty far down the list of Jack's priorities at the moment. He could have let the guards awaken Derevko, but he decided against it, instead walking down the hall and knocking on her door in near-pitch darkness. Jack remembered that she had refused pajamas.

By the time she snapped on the light, Derevko was dressed and had the scarf loosely tucked around her tufts of hair. She looked uneasy, and he didn't blame her: late-night awakenings rarely meant good things for prisoners. But he didn't speak a word until the guards had let him in and gone to their places down the hall.

Without preamble, he said, "I need you to tell me something new about Rambaldi. Something you don't think our people will have. Preferably something we'll still need to follow up on, nothing too neat and tidy. Does any of your intel fall into that area?"

Derevko blinked. "Yes."

"Then tell me."

"Why are you –" She put up a hand, as if silencing him, though Jack made no move to speak. Slowly, she said, "You didn't know about Rambaldi. Did you?"

He didn't like admitting it, but at this point, he needed the truth more than the illusion of an interrogator's omniscience. "No."

"They sent you in blind. But you found out that it was true anyway – not by asking them straightforwardly, or you wouldn't need intel from me –" To his surprise, Derevko began to smile. "You believed me."

"I thought it was possible you were telling the truth."

"About a fifteenth-century prophet and his miraculous works." Tears sparkled in her eyes, and Jack had never realized that a woman so powerful in the face of adversity could be so quickly undone by relief and gratitude. "You believed me."

"Tomorrow morning, they'll know that I know. If I don't have something to bargain with then, they'll take me off your case."

And then it hit Jack – why did that matter? Why not turn Derevko's case over to another agent? The possibility had never even occurred to him; even now, as he realized it was a logical course of action, not inherently dangerous to his career.

But the answer was clear: Another agent might not value Derevko's life, and in that case, she was very likely to end up jailed forever at best, quietly executed at worst. Jack already knew he would do whatever he could to stop that from happening.

She took one step forward, her composure slowly returning. It occurred to Jack how seldom they had stood face-to-face – normally she was seated at the table before he arrived – and how tall she was. He was aware that the guards were not watching them, an awareness he thought he'd disregarded early on. And he understood at last that he should have begged the CIA to take him off the Derevko interrogation a long time ago.

Too late now.

Derevko shook her head, as if she were still waking up, and sat down on the edge of her bunk. Jack remained on his feet. Once again all business, she said, "You remember the notations about Corsica in my original statement."

"Yes. If you're going to tell me specifically what's hidden there, don't. That information would give the agency too much leverage."

"Not if you don't tell them." She raised an eyebrow.

Jack thought wearily that he hadn't gotten up this morning with any plans to conspire with a KGB agent against the CIA, and that you could never know where the day would lead. "I'll decide what to tell them."

"Hidden in a small cave near the Golfe de Porto is a box that once belonged to Rambaldi. I don't know the contents, and neither does anyone else. I only learned the location a few days before I escaped to the Korean peninsula, and I didn't report that to my superiors."

"If you don't know the contents, why do you think it's important?"

"According to the manuscript I found – and destroyed – the box reveals the identity of she who will give birth to the chosen one. That knowledge could set Katya free, or condemn her forever."

"How does it reveal this information?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to see it to know."   
"Why did you destroy the manuscript? Seems like that would be your best bet of authenticating it as Rambaldi's."

Frustrated, Derevko sighed. "The manuscript could have fallen into Soviet hands; I couldn't take that risk. Besides, when you see Rambaldi's work, you know it. Trust me on this – now that you trust me a little."

He wasn't touching that one. "And why do you need CIA help to get into a cave in Corsica?"

"Corsica isn't exactly a political hot spot; I couldn't have gotten the KGB to send me on their own. And the area surrounding the cave has recently been declared protected land by UNESCO. As wildlife preserves go, it's extremely well-policed. You wouldn't need arms or a strike team, but backup would be necessary."

"Okay." Jack considered this for a minute. "This information is obviously of importance to you, given the situation with your sisters. Why should the CIA care?"

"You don't yet understand Rambaldi's followers. The chosen one – they all care about that, Jack. The CIA, the KGB, others besides. All of them."

"Why do I suspect that I'll wish I'd never heard of Rambaldi?"

"Because you're a rational man."

"I'll talk to them in the morning," Jack said, talking himself through the plan as much as Derevko. "I'll propose the op, and I'm going to tell them about the box. I'll let them know that it's intel the Soviets would want too – and suggest that a KGB agent may already know."

Derevko gave him a look.

"It's true," Jack said, and he wondered if he was finally thinking clearly or whether he'd lost his mind.

He half-turned from her – but he knew he was hiding from Derevko, and worse, she would know it too. So Jack forced himself to meet her eyes, and he knew that she saw his inner struggle, probably more clearly than he did himself. Maybe she was playing him; this could be no more than her game, her way of trying to tip the odds in her favor, and if so, Jack could not blame her for it. But he did not think she was playing.

So quietly that he had to strain to hear her – so that the guards outside could never have heard her – Derevko said, "You are my only ally here."

Jack didn't feel as if he could keep breathing. In that moment, he could believe that this entanglement of emotion and motive and need was not his delusion, but something they shared. Something real.

When the silence had stretched out too long, she continued, "If they doubt your objectivity, they'll send you away. Hawkins will be in charge again, or someone like him, and I will never walk out of this jail. My sister will live as a slave. Everything I've done –"

"I'll make them see reason."

"Reason." Derevko bowed her head. "Yes."

Reason had never felt so far away.

**

The tribunal was not called by that name, and was an informal one as such things went: two senior CIA agents from the nearest field office – one with a red tie, one with a blue -- and Hawkins, all of them in Hawkins' office and all of them smoking. They all called it a "conversation." Jack, who knew what was really going on here, behaved as though he were a man presenting a risky but valuable plan – not one being called on the carpet to explain himself. "The Corsica trip will require minimal manpower and almost no diplomatic risk."

Red Tie said, "That's French territory –"

"We're talking about going into a wildlife preserve. Worst-case scenario, it's still hardly the setup for an international incident."

"You notice how she didn't just tell us where the cave is," Blue Tie pointed out.

"Of course not. No prisoner is going to damage the value of her own intel – or her own life."

Hawkins took a deep drag on his Marlboro. "I notice you haven't tried getting the truth out of her. Not very hard, anyway."

"Through torture? No, I haven't." Jack only looked at the senior agents when he spoke; they were the ones who would make the final call, and he wanted them to leave Hawkins out of their decision-making. That might be tough, though – a career military man might have more of their confidence than a young agent, particularly one who had been deliberately sent in as a dupe. "And I've gotten more information from her by asking than you did through your methods. So let's stick with what works."

Blue Tie looked unconvinced. "I'd rather get the location and send men without her."

"No matter how you go about it, getting that information from her by force would take time," Jack said. "She's strong-willed. Besides, you'd burn her as a source of intel forever, and Derevko's a good source. What we've learned already demonstrates that. In the alternative – you task an agent to go with her, stay with her at all times. If she's trustworthy, we get the box and the information. If she's not – she runs, leaving us with plenty of new information and the KGB with nothing new."

Red Tie stubbed out his cigarette before lighting another. "She could blow your cover."

Jack hadn't thought of that, but he tried not to let his momentary unease show. "It's a fairly big risk for me, then, but I'm willing to take it. Revealing one agent's identity isn't a very big risk for the Agency."

"You're really ready to back her up, aren't you?" Hawkins was smiling now, an expression Jack did not like. Beneath the smoke curling from Hawkins' mouth was recognition of something Jack had been too slow to recognize himself. "You spend a lot of time with Derevko, huh?"

Blue Tie objected to the insinuation. "I saw the photos you guys took. The lady's bald, for Chrissakes."

"You never know. Any inappropriate conduct there, Bristow?" Red Tie barked.

Fortunate, that the question had been phrased that way. "I've never so much as touched Derevko. She hasn't offered any sexual favors, and I sure as hell haven't asked."

His answer was honest – but he'd pushed back too hard for a man truly free of temptation. Defensiveness equaled weakness. Jack knew it and so did the others. The mood in the room was shifting, turning against him. He envisioned Derevko in her harshly lit cell, pacing the tiny cinderblock room, unable to do anything to help herself now.

Hawkins pressed his advantage. "You say you've gotten a lot of information from her. But what are you talking about? Plans. Possibilities. Gossip. What we need is hard intel about Southeast Asia, and we need it now. Do I have to remind you that our boys are over there fighting and dying in Vietnam?"

"Expecting any agent to have infinite intel about all facets of Soviet-sponsored operations is unrealistic." Jack tried hard not to think about how wide-ranging Derevko's information sometimes was.

"No reason not to ask, right?" Hawkins cocked his head, the mockery on the border between covert and overt. "Or maybe that would involve getting your hands dirty. And you wouldn't like that, would you, Bristow? If you wanted to face reality – the blood and sweat it takes to get things done – maybe you'd be over there in Vietnam yourself. But instead you found a way to keep yourself high and dry, didn't you?"

"You're suggesting that I joined the CIA to minimize my personal risk of bodily harm?" Jack smirked. "You're an original thinker, Captain."

Red Tie and Blue Tie both glared at Hawkins, who had realized too late that attacking the agency itself might have been unwise. Jack began to relax; from now on, this would be a cakewalk.

Three hours later, Jack went to Derevko's cell again. Normally he came to her in the morning; never had he been this late before, and he saw that the delay had been difficult for her. But she remained seated in the room's one chair, as if waiting for a report. The room seemed strange to him, and it took him a moment to realize the table hadn't been brought in. The washed-out dreariness of the cell was new to him again: the pale green tile and cinderblocks, the drab coverall she wore, even the dark-blue scarf.

He wished he'd bought a red scarf for her instead.

"You're here," Derevko said. "That means it went well."

"It went fine. We have to produce results now, of course, but if we get the box, we'll be all right. Maybe we'll even get you set free."

"Maybe." She didn't believe. "When is the mission?"

"We leave tomorrow. You and I should put together a list of provisions – what we'll need, our legends, all of that."

"We – we leave? They're sending us to Corsica? Sending me?"

"Right." Jack thought this over; he'd thought that Derevko had suggested this herself, but apparently that assumption was in error. "I'll stay with you at all times, of course."

Derevko nodded, a slow smile dawning on her face. "Of course."

Hawkins might have been right after all, and Jack knew it: If Derevko had set out to play him, then she had achieved perfect results. Within twenty-four hours, Jack would usher her from this cell and take her to a Mediterranean island, where they would proceed to steal the Rambaldi box she needed with full CIA backup. After she got the box in her hands, Derevko might run. She might do whatever it took to get away clean – including killing the CIA agent with her. And it would all have been his idea.

Jack knew he was pretty far gone with her. But he told himself that as long as he remained focused – as long as he knew the difference between his hopes and the odds – he could handle himself.

Recent evidence to the contrary.

**

 _off the shore of Ajax, Corsica_

 

The Navy ship lowered the gangplank to the speedboat that would provide part of the cover for the CIA operation. Jack would normally have been tightly focused at this point – sinking into his legend as a rich Italian playboy, walking through all the steps they'd have to get through – but he kept thinking about Derevko in her nearby cabin.

Maybe she was preparing like the good agent he strongly suspected she was. Jack suspected that, instead, Derevko was looking outside at the cobalt-and-green waters, enjoying the heat of sunshine on her face for the first time in too long.

Time to think about sunshine and Derevko's face later, he told himself. For now, get dressed.

Jack liked suits. They were simple, appropriate for almost all occasions and, best of all, revealed virtually nothing to others about the wearer's character. Despite the recent revolutions in men's attire, Jack stuck to suits most of the time and felt his choice would be vindicated over time. However, a rich Italian playboy would have different tastes.

He could live with the slender-tailored poly-knit white slacks, and the black turtleneck wasn't too bad, even if it did cling to Jack's body like paint. However, the boots had a thick sole that in Jack's opinion came disturbingly close to being a high heel, and the zodiac Scorpio medallion did not bear thinking about.

After studying the overall effect, he sighed and decided he'd worn worse in the line of duty. A few fingers through the hair wrecked the careful combing-down Jack did every day and set his curls free. Image complete, he made his way up to the deck.

"Lookin' fancy, Bristow," Red Tie said. He was wearing something else by now, but to Jack, he would always be Red Tie.

"You should've seen me in Addis Ababa last year. I hope I've worn my last burnoose."

Red Tie was grinning. Easy for him to smile, in a suit. "OK, you leave the speedboat at Ajax. In eight hours, a yacht is gonna be waiting for you in Calvi. We'll create a diversion for the border guards approximately three hours from now – take it or leave it. We can hang around in Calvi for a while if you guys have some problems finding the cave, but too long and you're on your own, with the French, the KGB, anybody and everybody who might have a problem with this. Got it?"

"Absolutely." The answer came not from Jack, but from Derevko, who had just arrived on deck. Jack turned to look at her and then could not look away.

She wore platform shoes that made her even taller and a red-and-white patterned wrap dress that hugged every curve of her body – curves Jack had never glimpsed beneath the heavy Army coverall. Her face was aglow with color, which might have had something to do with the fact that she wore makeup, but Jack thought was probably mostly the sunlight and her smile. A dark wig, straight, waist-length and parted in the middle, transformed her so utterly that Jack would hardly have known her.

He'd realized that Irina Derevko was attractive long ago – especially her dark eyes. But only now did Jack realize that she was beautiful, so beautiful that every man on the deck was as dumbfounded as he was.

Her eyes were only for Jack. "You look different, Bristow."

"So do you," he managed to say.

"I should hope so."

Derevko strolled to the walkway to the yacht, already in character. Or was that playfulness part of her character, something Jack had never had the chance to see until this? In either case, she made an extraordinary picture: a stunning woman in white and red, outlined by the dazzling blue sea. In this moment she had power, where she had always been powerless before; that power was more than her beauty, but part of it, too. If Jack had been in trouble regarding his feelings for her before – and he had been – he knew he was in a lot deeper now.

Red Tie said only, "Good luck, Bristow. You're gonna need it."

Jack sighed. "Yeah."

Then they stepped onto the speedboat together, walking away from their old roles into freedom. Jack gunned the motor and took off across the sea. As the boat battled the chop of the waters, the breeze was in his hair and the salt spray was on his cheeks. He turned on the radio – music would be in-character – and the song "Vehicle" blared out over the waves. Derevko lounged back in the seat next to his; he mirrored her posture. They slipped on their aviator sunglasses at the same moment and smiled at each other.

"It's a beautiful day," she said, as easily as though this weren't her first taste of freedom in four months.

The heavy horn section and electric guitar on the radio fit the setting – sun and sea, a pretty girl by his side – but Jack knew he had to stay focused, now more than ever. "We aren't on a day trip. This is a mission. We have to produce results."

"I know that better than anyone." Calm and untroubled, she toyed with the string of jade beads around her neck. In the lenses of her sunglasses, the island of Corsica was reflected, larger and larger, shining bright.

What if she had set him up? Jack didn't believe that, not really, but he couldn't dismiss the idea. Maybe that was his own doubt talking; maybe it was good sense. The two qualities were rarely divorced, in Jack's experience. The very intensity with which he wanted Derevko to be on the level, his need to know that this connection they had forged was real, served as proof to Jack that he couldn't trust his instincts anymore. Not when it came to her.

She laughed then, perhaps in the simple joy of being outside, tossing her head so that the long tresses of her wig rippled in the wind. "By the way, don't you think it's time you started calling me Irina?"

"No, it's time I started calling you Marilena."

She tilted her head, studying him. His reflection in her sunglasses wavered too much to be clear. "Very well, Dario."

 _Irina,_ he thought. _Irina._

**

"Pronto! Pronto!" Jack banged the bell on the hotel counter a few times more, for emphasis. The promised Italian-speaking clerk did not arrive. "No Italiano?"

"Non, m'sieur –"

"English?" The accent was laid on as thick as possible, and Jack made sure to make it a little bit insulting. "Do at least you speak English?"

"Oui – yes, sir. How may we help –"

"Room, one. Is under name Dario Cassini. Big room." He gave Irina the most lascivious look he could manage, which under the circumstances should've been pretty damn good. "Big bathtub."

She giggled and slipped her arms around his waist. They had never really touched before, and Jack felt the shock of it throughout his whole body. But he simply cuddled her close – in character, of course. "You need bath," she whispered into his ear, loud enough for the clerks to hear. Jack could feel her warm breath against his cheek. "You are dirty boy."

"You hear my Marilena," Jack said. "Room now. Bath now."

"Sir – we have no reservation for a Cassini –"

"What this is?" Jack gestured as wildly as he could with just one hand; the other remained at Irina's hip. "I call and you say a room is there, I come and you say no!"

"Sir, sir, we can take care of you. We have a room available." The clerk hated him deeply by now, and Jack could tell; he wondered how much of that was his bad manners and how much was the fact that a woman who looked like "Marilena" had wound herself around him. Either was fine, as the clerk would write "Dario Cassini" off as a stupid loudmouth, exactly the kind of person who might rush into a forbidden area merely because he felt like it. The entire Dario-and-Marilena ruse was purely backup, just in case they got caught.

"Why you do not say so? Room is fine."

Irina snuggled even closer. "Motorcycle? You promise." She turned those doe eyes on the clerk, who seemed to melt visibly, like candle wax. Jack couldn't blame the guy; Irina had hooked two fingers onto Dario's belt loop, and every gentle tug felt as though it might pull him completely off-balance. "Vespa?"

Jack added, "We can rent, yes?"

"A Vespa will be waiting for you within the hour, sir."

"Black! Always black. Is best color. Like Elvis."

The clerk kept an utterly straight face. "A black Vespa, sir."

Jack gave him his smarmiest Dario smile. "Prego."

A bellhop took the Louis Vuitton bags and led them to the elevator. Irina kept herself wound around him, and Jack found that his arm rested easily along her shoulders. Her perfume smelled expensive and alluring; the Ops guys had outdone themselves, this time.

The part of the op where they spent a little while in a hotel room alone together hadn't ever seemed that important to Jack, before. Now it loomed large in his mind, almost as large as the mission itself. He knew he needed a priority check, but he'd have to do that sometime when perfume wasn't thick in the air, or when Irina's fingers weren't teasing the curls above his ear.

It was in-character for Dario to pull her closer, to rest his forehead against hers. In-character, also, for Marilena to flatten her hands against his chest, tracing small circles with her thumbs. All around them, in the elevator, were strips of bronze-tinted mirrored glass, so Jack could see a dozen reflections of them from every angle without ever turning from her: his hands smoothing their way down to her ass, her nose nuzzling the corner of his jaw, the way their faces were coming closer and closer together. It was time for Dario to kiss Marilena.

Instead, Jack kissed Irina. He thought Irina kissed Jack back.

Clearing his throat, the bellhop alerted them to the fact that they'd reached their floor. Their room turned out to be as palatial as Dario could have hoped, decorated in white on white, with a huge window that looked out on their balcony and then the sea. Marilena pressed a few francs in the bellhop's hand; Jack wondered if the notes smelled like perfume too. She shut the door behind the bellhop, and then they were alone.

Irina's eyes met his, and in that instant, Jack felt it, like an impact: If he reached out to her now, they would become lovers within minutes. And she wanted very badly for him to reach out to her.

The images flickered in his mind, hard and staccato like his heartbeat: pushing her against the wall, her hands clutching his shoulders, her mouth opening beneath his as he pulled her toward the bed --

He forced himself to say, "We should get ready."

"A shame. That we can't afford to waste any time. Or can we?"

If she was trying to manipulate him, the worst thing he could do would be to give in to her sexually. If she wasn't – then, Jack told himself, it could wait. He didn't want to wait, and that white bed behind her seemed to have acquired its own gravitational pull – but he had to keep it together. "We have to be downstairs within the hour. If we were going to – waste time – I'd want a lot more time to spare."

"I like that answer." Although Irina was still smiling, her face had hardened. "Too bad it's not the truth."

Jack raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing. He wasn't going to be baited, not in any sense of the term.

She continued, "Everything's changed now. I'm not your little bird in a cage anymore. And I don't think you like it."

"I never liked the fact that you were in a cage."

"Maybe not. But you don't like the fact that we're on equal footing now. Or the fact that you're the one who set me free. Do you really think you're the one who's on the line here?"

He hesitated, choosing his words even more carefully than usual. Her anger was her way of testing him, just as his evasion was a way of testing her. "The balance of power has changed. I have to be more careful now. If I didn't see that, and act accordingly –" Jack couldn't resist a small smile. "I don't think you'd respect me in the morning."

Irina smiled at him, as if amused, but he knew that she was still studying him, still unsure exactly whom she was dealing with. That made two of them. Lightly, she said, "All the same, you'll go to bed tonight wondering what would've happened. If we'd – wasted time."

"Will you?"

That got no reply, save for a sidelong glance. She gathered her velour running suit from the suitcase, and Jack took his things into the bathroom to offer them both privacy while they changed clothes.

Before he got dressed, Jack decided, he'd splash some cold water on his face. A lot of cold water.

**

The matching brown running suits were the sort of thing wealthy, careless young people might wear out for a pleasant ride along the shore. It was a warm day, but the ocean breeze and the Vespa's speed meant that the velour wasn't too hot. Marilena's arms were tight around Dario's waist, and Dario could feel her head resting upon his back. Corsica's famously strange coastline – speckled with countless rock formations, in shapes both whimsical and bizarre – was reason enough for any pair of tourists to take their time, to ride as far as they could go. It was even reason enough for them to slip past the border of the Parc Naturel Regional de Corse, blissfully unaware of any world farther away than their sunglasses.

They could have said to any patrol – no, they hadn't seen the speedboat collision offshore at just that hour. They weren't looking at the water at that moment. But, as all the patrolmen went searching the water for dead bodies (in vain, as the boats had been automated by the CIA), nobody stopped Marilena and Dario to ask that question. And Jack and Irina were on their own.

Every mile they traveled deeper into the preserve – hilly terrain, half-wooded and half-rocky – Jack felt more and more unsure. He wanted to believe Irina; he did believe her, more than not, or he would not be here on his own with her. But he knew too well that if she had been setting him up, he had delivered everything she could have wanted, and then some.

And if she had set him up, she'd want to ride out of here alone.

"I think it's here," she said as they stood on one outcropping near the ocean. "The cave."

"In this area?"

"No. Beneath us."

Jack stepped to the very precipice and looked down; the brilliant red rock seemed to drop straight down to the ocean some three hundred feet below.

"Quite a plunge." Irina spoke behind him, so close that he tensed. "But look closer."

That was when he saw it – barely visible at this angle, a dark indentation in the stone about fifty feet down. "You think there's a cave facing the ocean."

"We'll have to rappel down to it," she said with relish, as though there were nothing she could enjoy more. "We've got the climbing equipment to do it."

He had imagined them climbing upward into the Corsican mountains. Climbing upward, you had some control. Being lowered down by someone else – "I'll get you down there, follow behind."

Irina's eyes flickered over to him, but if she sensed his unease, she didn't mention it. "Sounds good."

Within a few minutes, the ropes were set up and he was lowering her carefully down the cliff face. She was clearly an expert, skidding down easily and sounding not at all out of breath when she called, "This is the cave. I'm going in."

"Be right down," Jack answered, hoping this was true.

His rock-climbing experience was minimal, but he made his way to the cave steadily enough. It was narrow-mouthed and musty, and the floor was slippery with algae.

"At least it's better than guano." Irina was a few steps ahead of him, vanishing from the sunlight's reach. "I've spent enough time in caves to know."

"I'll take your word for it. What do you see?"

"Light."

As he followed, he saw the same: a single shaft of light, shining down on a pedestal deep within the cave. Where the hell was the light coming from? Jack had the initial, strange impression that someone had wired the cave for a single bulb, then realized a simple mirror was lodged in one corner. Somewhere, deeper within the cave, another mirror was shining light on it – and Jack didn't doubt that if they walked far enough, they'd find another entrance, one open to sunlight that had been used to shine on this pedestal for centuries. This was his first direct experience with Rambaldi's genius, and it both thrilled and unnerved him.

"We're a little late – the shaft of light isn't on the box anymore, but we can get it –" Irina sounded almost eager. Was that for her sister or for her prize? Soon, Jack would know.

He arrived at her side, still sliding a little on the slick stones, just as her hands made contact with the box. It was about half the size of a shoebox, carved of wood with silver inlay. When Irina lifted it, Jack said, "How will you know which of your sisters it talks about?"

"We'll have to see."

She moved the box into the sunlight, and the light shone down from the letters etched there: IRINA

Irina shoved the box back onto the pedestal, as though its touch burned. Jack stared down at it, caught between astonishment and unwilling belief.

Rambaldi had known Irina – some way, somehow – centuries before Jack had ever met her. He felt awed. He felt frightened. He felt protective of her, and hoped that was the right way to feel.

"It's me," Irina whispered. "Rambaldi thought that I would give birth to the Chosen One."

She was trembling – she who never trembled, who had faced down her captor in a foreign jail without ever surrendering her courage. This was different than pure physical risk, Jack realized; this was about destiny, if you believed in that kind of thing. All at once, he decided that he didn't. Never before had Jack had any reason to ask himself the question.

He asked, "Do you have children?" It was odd to think that she might, and he would not know. But Irina shook her head no. "Then Rambaldi's guess is as good as anyone else's. No better."

"You're not a fatalist, I see. Not what I would have guessed."

"Nobody can know the entire future."

"My name is on this box."

"A lot of woman have had your name, over the centuries. And if I remember correctly, Irina also means 'peace' – which might have more to do with the box than destiny. Finally, this could be a hoax. A copycat. Something planted to fool the believers, like false intel."

"You can tie yourself up in a lot of knots to avoid the obvious conclusion, can't you?"

"If the conclusion that your fate was preordained by a fifteenth-century mystic is supposed to be the obvious one, I don't want to know what you would consider reaching."

Irina leaned closer to him; the single shaft of sunlight flowed parallel to their faces, illuminating half of her in gold. Jack thought briefly of the cover of Rubber Soul. "If you're trying to convince me to bring the box back, you don't have to. I know what happens if we show up with nothing. The CIA decides I'm a liar. I go back to jail, and I never come out again."

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything, except that you don't have to let this – thing – intimidate you. But why would you want to leave the box behind?"

"There are people in your government who will want to use me as the Soviets are using Elena and Katya. Not many, perhaps – but it only takes one, if he's in the right place to give the order. And he might be."

"That's not going to happen. I won't let it."

Her stare was harder now than it had been during any interrogation. "You."

Could he break into a prison for her? Disobey orders? Sacrifice his career and risk his life? Yes, he could. No point in lying to himself, not anymore. Wasn't he already halfway there? "Me. If it comes to that. But I hope it won't."

"That makes two of us." Grimly, she took the box back in the crook of one arm and began making her way toward the cave entrance. Had his offer of help comforted her or offended her? It might simply have amused her. Jack was still too shell-shocked by the box's revelation to much care.

What did that even mean – a chosen one? Before, the Rambaldi mysteries had just been a variable for Jack to factor in, nothing he had to consider in any depth. But now, after he had seen Irina's name on that box, now that he knew that both the KGB and the CIA might someday be focused on her, it had all become more real.

Jack cleared his head as he reached the mouth of the cave. He could worry about the rest after he ascended the cliff.

Irina easily looped her rope around one arm and kept the box tucked against her side as she began climbing back up; though her grip was not as sure, now that she had only one hand to work with, she was still clearly well within her comfort zone. He wasn't. Jack used both hands and swore beneath his breath as he realized how slippery his shoes had become; the algae still coated the smooth soles.

"Be careful," she called. "Your footing is going to be tricky now."

"I had realized that." Jack had to take more of his weight and balance on his hands, which hurt but was doable. He didn't worry about the fact that Irina was covering ground so much faster than him; all that mattered was getting to the top eventually. The sound of the tides beneath and behind him could be reassuring, if he let it be, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. Just pull, and step, and pull, and –

Jack's foot slipped entirely out from under him. He swung precariously to one side, but kept his grip on the rope. For a moment he believed the crisis was past, but then he heard a tearing sound and looked up – to see the rope fraying. His swing had scraped the rope across a sharp outcropping, cutting it halfway through, and gravity was about to do the rest.

"Shit!" Jack let go of the rope in the instant before it gave way and scrabbled for purchase against the rough red stone. The cliff felt like a hard, swift punch to his chest. He grabbed on before he fell more than a couple of inches – but the handholds were tenuous, and his shoes were still too slick to be of much help.

He was hanging two hundred and fifty feet above the water, far enough for the crash into the surf to splinter his skull into confetti. Of course, Jack knew, he'd probably bash his brains out against the cliff on his way down. So no need to worry about the water.

"Jack!"

"I'm okay!" he yelled, aware that he was fooling no one.

"I'm coming down for you."

"Don't. I can get back to the cave."

"Like hell you can."

"You're supposed to be following my orders on this mission."

"You can't report me if you're dead. Don't you want the chance?" Irina's feet were thumping closer and closer to him; Jack glanced up to see her, box still in hand, the long hair of her wig falling down past her shoulder like a curtain. "Hang on."

The rope had worn Jack's palms raw, and the stones had sliced into them deeply. He was grateful that the rock was red, so that he couldn't see his own blood. "I'm not going anywhere."

She came level with him at last, breathing hard from the exertion. Though she was handling herself well, she had only one arm free – and that made it likely that any attempt at rescue would be fatal to him, and maybe to her, too. Jack wondered how he would have to do this : Let go of the stone, hope like hell that he could make a successful grab for her rope and hold on? But what if he knocked her grip loose? It was easier to imagine himself tumbling down that cliff face than her.

Then Irina took a deep breath – and let Rambaldi's box fall.

"No –" But Jack's throat closed up around the shout. They both watched the box – Irina's vindication, and the one chance she had to prove herself to the CIA – plummet downward, bouncing off the rocks and sending splinters in every direction, until it splashed into the water, probably never to be seen again.

Irina slid her now-free arm around his and ducked her head beneath his shoulder, so that he was now hanging on to her. Thus steadied, Jack was able to grab onto the rope with the other hand. They clambered up together, not looking back.

When at last they were on the top, Irina remained on her hands and knees, panting from the exertion. Jack stood up and braced himself against a nearby tree, hardly able to speak.

After more than a minute, he managed to say, "You should have taken the box."

"They would have thought I'd killed you."

"They might have forgiven that first."

"I know." Irina looked up at him, so free of regret that it humbled him.

There was only one thing left to say. "Thank you."

He wanted to help her up from the ground, but his bleeding hands wouldn't allow that. Irina pulled herself up, used the supplies in their bag to bandage his palms. Then they got back on the Vespa and rode to Calvi with nothing to back up Irina's story but their word. Each of them knew how far that would go, and how much trouble they now faced.

**

"You claim you had the box in hand –"

"She did," Jack said, but Red Tie didn't want to hear it.

"And then this accident comes up where you just conveniently have to drop your proof?"

"I told you." Irina was once again herself, cool and collected. Or did Jack just feel that way because this was the side of her he knew best – the subject of an interrogation? "Dive for it in the location we told you. There's a chance you might find it."

"Yeah, it's easy to find stuff on the ocean floor. I just think this is really damn convenient, that's all." Red Tie's glare moved over to Jack. "And I think this is the last time you're gonna design a mission while you're thinking with your dick, Bristow."

Jack gave him an icy smile. "And what did you use to approve the mission? Because I seem to recall that you did."

Before Red Tie could come up with a retort, Irina quickly said, "Jack told me not to drop the box. I disobeyed his orders. The fault is mine."

"We don't have to worry about how much trouble you're in," Red Tie said to her. "You're in as deep as it gets. The only question is how far down Bristow goes with you."

Just when Jack was thinking that his best move, pre-court martial, might be to punch Red Tie in the face, a Navy diver in a wet suit came through the door – holding out the waterlogged box. "Sir, we found it."

"Found it?" Red Tie didn't know what to say.

Jack did. "Derevko's been telling you the truth, as you can now see. I suggest you report that to your superiors."

"Right, right."

Irina breathed in sharply; Red Tie, still examining his find, didn't notice, but Jack did. He glanced over at her to see that she was staring down at the box. Following her gaze, he saw that the box's long tumble had damaged it –

\-- and had knocked away the silver on top, including the letters of her name.

"How do we know this was Rambaldi's?" Red Tie demanded. "How do we know which sister to look for?"

"It's going to require study," Jack said quickly. "Months, perhaps. But that's what experts are for."

"If we find out this is some fake –"

"It's the truth." Irina still seemed unable to process the fact of her deliverance. "You'll see."

Red Tie glared at them both, less angry than before but not convinced. "Yeah, we'll see. Until then, somebody else is handling your case, Derevko." Jack tried to object, but Red Tie cut him off. "You've pushed this as far as you can, Bristow. You know it as well as I do. Get back to Langley, see what your supervisors make of you and – IF this is the Rambaldi box and IF she can ever prove it – then maybe you get to see your girlfriend again. But you are off this interrogation for good."

"The box is legitimate. So I'm sure it won't be long." Jack's eyes met Irina's. There was nothing else he could possibly say; any protest or denial would only prove Red Tie's point for him. He rose unsteadily from his chair and held up his bandaged hands. "I'm be in the med center."

"I told you." Irina didn't look at Jack as she spoke; Red Tie stared back and forth between them, suspiciously. "About – wasting time. That you'd wonder."

The hotel room they'd left behind in Corsica – the memory of that broad white bed, Irina's nearness to him – shimmered in Jack's mind, a mirage on the horizon. "You were right," he said, then walked out before he had to hear anything else.

**

 

 _Washington, D.C._

 

As it turned out, there were all sorts of ways a Rambaldi artifact could be proved legitimate – and the box passed every one. It also turned out that very few things made the CIA as happy as a genuine Rambaldi artifact.

Jack's review had come out golden weeks before, but he hadn't been able to relax. Today was the day that mattered – the day of Irina's review. He hadn't seen her in two months, since the Corsica op, though he understood that her stock had risen within the agency considerably after the box had been authenticated. Many still doubted her, as they would have any KGB agent offering to defect and join their efforts; others felt that she had proved herself and would be too valuable a resource to lose.

Which way would the review board lean? In either case, Jack knew that her life was no longer in danger. Because of that, he could take it easy. Stay at home and enjoy some of his rare time off. Wait to get the news when it came to him.

He could have done any of those things. Instead, he paced in front of Langley, waiting and waiting for someone to come down those steps. It was a sultry summer afternoon, so he left his suit jacket in the car, but he drew the line at loosening his tie. That might reveal that he was nervous. Not that anybody could miss it at this point, but he clung to the idea of plausible deniability.

After the fifth time he'd checked his watch, Jack glanced up in frustration and saw her.

Irina's hair turned out to be a nice chestnut color, and it had been neatly trimmed into a bowl cut that framed her face. She wore a simple, boxy suit that Jack instinctively understood had been bought for her; it wasn't the kind of thing she would have picked out herself, though he couldn't have guessed what her choice might be. CIA personnel flanked her, but they weren't guards; they were escorting her not to jail, but to freedom.

She saw him almost instantly, and her recognition was followed by a flicker of something that was almost a smile. Jack put his hands in his pockets and waited for her to descend the steps. Irina walked directly toward him, though she paid attention to the handlers around her. A silver-haired woman was giving brisk instructions: "We'll put you up at the Watergate until you find a suitable apartment. Someone at the agency can help you with that. Tomorrow we'll deliver a packet with identification, a driver's license, other documents you'll need to get settled and create your cover story."

Irina didn't thank them for any of this. "I'll need money."

"Well – yes – we'll have bank account information in the packet, and the initial balance should be sufficient to get you started –"

"Good. I can take it from here." She finally stepped right in front of Jack, and only then did the people around her notice him. More than one of them wore a look that said they'd been expecting this; apparently Jack and Irina were already the subject of gossip. The idea made Jack's skin crawl, but there was nothing for it now. Irina continued, "I'm fine. You can go. Agent Bristow will give me a ride to the Watergate, won't you?"

"Of course," Jack replied, as casually as though these weren't the first words they'd spoken in months.

The handlers around her obviously had planned on spending more time talking her through things, but just as obviously knew when they weren't wanted it. They said a few meaningless things about checking in with her tomorrow before wandering off, invisible to Jack and Irina both.

When at last she stood alone in front of him, he said only, "You're in."

"Effective immediately. Apparently I won't be doing field work. Not at first, anyway."

"They're wasting a resource. You're good at the job."

Instead of false modesty, Irina simply nodded, acknowledging his assessment. "They want me doing research. Not only on Rambaldi, but – research."

Jack understood. "It's not the life you want."

She shrugged. "I gave up that life when I defected. It's just a matter of accepting what I have."

"Maybe you made the board believe that. Maybe you even pretend to believe it yourself. But we both know – you'll find a way to get back in the field again. Soon. And then they'll see what they've got."

"You put a lot of faith in your supervisors, Jack."

"Not just in them." Irina smiled at him, more gently than he'd seen before. They fell into step beside each other on the sidewalk. "What about Katya?"

"The Soviets have received very reliable intel, from sources they won't doubt, that Elena is the one they seek." If Irina felt any regrets about sacrificing her elder sister in this way, she didn't show it. "In another few weeks, the CIA will offer to trade information in exchange for Katya, suggesting that they think Katya is the right sister. The KGB, believing that they're giving away nothing and fooling the CIA to boot, should hand her over." More softly, she added, "I'm looking forward to seeing her again."

Jack nodded. "The CIA is sure the box speaks about Elena?"

"The CIA is still very unsure what to make of that box. Pity it was so badly damaged."

"Shame."

Now that they'd covered the basics, Jack felt a certain trepidation. For the first time since he'd met Irina Derevko, he wasn't sure what to say. Perhaps that was because he no longer had to avoid saying anything; freedom was sometimes paradoxically paralyzing. The fever they'd both felt in Corsica – the wild need that had nearly driven him to make love to her in that hotel room, in the middle of a mission – had broken now. In its place was the same kind of commingled eagerness and confusion that he vaguely remembered from junior high dances.

He ventured, "So -- you'll be based in D.C.?"

"Yes. You are too, I think.

"Yes." Well, so much for that topic of conversation. Jack cast about for another and found it when he saw that she'd gained back a little weight, had some spring in her step. "I heard they housed you at another base, but it must have been better."

"Very much. I was in quarters, not a cell, and I can promise that I didn't miss Captain Hawkins' hospitality at all." Irina's sidelong glance was sly enough to make him smile. "But – no one brought me books, or ate lunch with me. Or bought me scarves."

The suspense was unendurable. To hell with it. "I realize you might be tired tonight – or want to do something in particular, during your first night of freedom – first night in America – but, if you wanted – I thought we could have dinner. Maybe see a movie. 'The Godfather' is playing in my neighborhood; I don't know if you've heard of it, but they say it's supposed to be pretty good."

Irina stopped walking and stared at him. Just when Jack was beginning to suspect he'd made a fool of himself, she said, "You're more awkward when you're asking personal questions."

"Yes." She might as well know that from the start.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "We know each other very well in some ways, but in others –"

"Not at all." Jack tried to look relaxed and confident, but he wasn't playing a role now – not the CIA Interrogator, or Dario Cassini, or anything else. He was stuck in his own skin, which he rarely found the most comfortable place to be. Yet with Irina, nothing else would answer, not anymore. "I know that we – connected, before. But the situation was intense. More for you than for me."

"And you think we might have confused cooperation for, shall we say, something more."

"Maybe," Jack admitted. "But I'd like to find out for sure."

"A smile was playing upon her lips now. "By going out on a date."

"An ordinary, regular, first date," Jack said. "Dinner and a movie."

Irina looked thoughtful, as if considering the customs of some isolated tribe she'd been asked to infiltrate. "I hear some people actually get to do that. I've always thought it sounded -- nice."

"Is that a yes?"

It was terrible, Jack thought, to feel like a boy in school, so unsure and so eager, his feelings so nakedly exposed. He knew that, as lost as he felt, it was a hundred times worse for Irina – her position in the CIA still brand-new, her freedom in another country not even an hour old.

But then Irina smiled more easily, and just like that, he wasn't lost at all.

"That's a yes," she said as they began to walk again, side by side. "We'll start with a first date –"

"—and see where it leads."

She slipped her arm through his. They fit together well.

 

THE END


End file.
